


Rebirthed Kings and Queens

by ObeyHeda



Series: Heavy Lies the Crown [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: And everything will be awful all the time, And then it will get hella angsty, Because this is The 100, But I promise there will be a happy ending, Canon Divergence, Clexa, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Slow burn i guess?, Smut, This will start fluffy, commander princess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 61,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3501248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObeyHeda/pseuds/ObeyHeda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it's over – when the sounds of guns and bombs and swords and spears have faded into the screams of their victims – they find themselves standing on the battlefield, breathing in the smoke and the vaporized blood and watching the sunlight filtering through the trees. Mount Weather has been cracked wide open, its prisoners released and its jailers made prisoner, and all that remains is for the victors to collect the spoils.</p><p>Previously Heavy Lies the Crown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Are we out of the woods yet

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon divergent after 2x14. I've tried to incorporate some canon elements - Polis most specifically, but there may be other stuff too. My other 100 fic The Prank takes place in this universe; you can assume that the Grounders and the Skaikru have taken Mount Weather with heavy losses, but all of our main characters have survived. Now that the common enemy has been defeated, however, the alliance of the twelve clans is in jeopardy, and the place of the Skaikru in the new world order is also in question.

When it's over – when the sounds of guns and bombs and swords and spears have faded into the screams of their victims – they find themselves standing on the battlefield, breathing in the smoke and the vaporized blood and watching the sunlight filtering through the trees. For the moment they can’t think of anything better than to be alive, to feel the blood singing in their veins and not escaping (except for in a few places, probably non-lethal), their hearts pumping, listening to the victory cries of their people, birdsong beginning to return to the world. Mount Weather has been cracked wide open, its prisoners released and its jailers made prisoner, and all that remains is for the victors to collect the spoils.

To that end Heda Lexa, Commander of the Twelve Clans, slowly finds her mind becoming focused; almost simultaneously she becomes aware of a great pain from a wound in her side that’s flowing blood, and of a need to make sure that Clarke Griffin, leader of the Sky People, is breathing the same air that she is and not lying somewhere under the earth bleeding out. These are both urgent needs to tend to but after a moment of mental struggle, Clarke wins out. She turns slowly to face down the hill, below the entrance to Mount Weather, and sees a pair of blue eyes – looking, through a mask of dirt and blood, rather startled to be alive – meet hers. _  
_

They move towards one another like they’re moving through water, feeling their limbs heavy, their minds leaden, only able to focus on one thing. They’re alive to see one another, bloodied and bruised but living and breathing, and for the moment that’s what matters – if only they can reach the other and touch, make sure it isn’t some cruel trick and they’re staring at a ghost. Clarke has others clamoring in the back of her mind – Bellamy, Octavia, Raven, her mother, the wounded and dead on both sides of the battle, whatever horrors await them in the lowest tunnels of Mount Weather – but for the moment Lexa’s right _here._

Clarke is looking into those sad, exhausted, joyous grey eyes, and she knows she’d said she wasn’t ready but when is going to be the time, if not _now?_ So she lets Lexa grip her shoulders and pull her into an embrace, lets her pretend she’s merely checking her for wounds and not making sure that her body is solid against her own. When Lexa looks up from the task Clarke raises her own hands and pulls Lexa down into their second of what she thinks will probably be many kisses. The first had been soft, gentle, full of caring; this one is deep, fierce, full of fire and relief and promise. Clarke chooses not to think about what the kiss might be promising; instead she chooses to open her mouth and pull Lexa in deeper.

It tastes like death and smoke and blood and _life_. It tastes of the ways things could have gone, of the ways they perhaps have, in other lives, in other worlds: Clarke screaming commands over Lexa’s broken body as her eyes lose their focus and her soul travels on to its next bearer – Lexa curled up alone in a corner around a mortal wound, Clarke only finding her later up against the wall like so much flotsam, so very, very small – Lexa standing over Clarke’s body and giving the order to slaughter every one of the Mountain Men left living in the most painful way possible, the doors to her heart shuttering one final time – Lexa cutting a deal with Cage, leading her people to safety while Clarke’s die under the ground – the two of them entwined, finally, in death. But they are here, alive and warm and smelling like war and dirt and things that will one day grow, and their lips move against one another’s, their hands clutch closer, as if they’re trying to merge into an indomitable being that cannot be hurt again.

It ends when Lexa lets out a groan that can’t even be mistaken for one of pleasure and buckles; Clarke has her well in hand, and gently lets her down to the forest floor, where she lies against the incline, her eyes closed, face suddenly ashen. “Where is it?” Clarke finds herself asking, the calm that usually overtakes her in the face of injury seeping through her blessedly. Lexa clenches her jaw and looks obstinate, and Clarke feels like punching her. “No fucking way. Tell me or I’ll make sure it kills you.”

Lexa’s eyes blaze fury and she opens her mouth to say something along the lines of _To speak in such a way to the Heda kom Trigedakru is to ask for death_ , but instead another pained groan comes out and she wincingly puts her hand to her side. It comes away wet, and Clarke pulls her thick leather overcoat aside to find an alarming quantity of blood. “We need to get you stitched up,” she says, in her best brook-no-nonsense voice that, in her experience, works on the most bone-headed of patients – then again, Lexa’s in a class by herself. “And if you tell me I should leave you to die –”

“You’ll kill me, I know,” Lexa says raggedly, yet with a tiny hint of what Clarke suspects might be teasing – or at least the recognition that the Commander has something approximating a sense of humor. Clarke chooses to ignore it for now, but files it away in the back of her mind for later. _Later._ They’re going to have a later.

Later turns out to be quite a while later, because when Clarke tries to lift Lexa onto her feet, to take her to where Abby and Kane have set up a kind of makeshift infirmary and triage center, she finds herself right on the ground beside the Commander, nearly passing out from the pain in her wrist and shoulder where a Mount Weather guard clubbed her with the butt of his empty rifle just before she’d shot him. The noise that comes out of her mouth is inhuman and it makes Lexa’s eyes widen. _Oh,_ Clarke thinks blearily, _that must be the adrenaline wearing off. Nature’s best anesthetic._ No wonder neither of them had noticed their wounds.

Clarke’s not sure how long she and Lexa lie there, focusing on simple things like breathing and the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees and not passing out from the pain of their various wounds. It could be minutes; it could be hours that they lie side by side, eyes locked, hands linked.

And then Abby – who had hastened there as soon as she’d been radioed about the fall of Mount Weather – is there with Nyko and several other of the least-wounded Grounders, press-ganged into service by the ruthless efficiency of a battle doctor, and she’s bundling Clarke onto a stretcher and ordering another one for Lexa. On her way off the ground someone accidentally jostles Clarke and the pain she feels is like nothing she could have imagined survivable. As she slowly fades into darkness she hears Lexa attempting to give out orders: _the Sky Girl gets the best of care, tend to her first, I’m fine._ She wants to tell Lexa to stuff it, but her head is thick and woolly and her tongue can’t get the words out. So she closes her eyes and gives in to the blackness, glad that she’ll probably wake up again.

* * *

 

When she wakes the pain is there, but it’s a dull throb, deep-seated and sickening but not so all-encompassing. Octavia is sitting on the edge of a cot near hers, looking pallid under the fluorescents and picking at a bandage wrapped around her thigh. Her left arm is in a sling and she’s swinging her legs off the edge of the cot, looking like nothing more than the bored teenager she still, impossibly, is.

“Where are we?”

The girl looks up sharply at her hoarse words. “In the infirmary under the mountain. That was where most of the medical supplies were, and nobody wanted to go in there but your mom said did we really want to watch people die while we were stupid enough to waste time carrying them out, and the Commander told everyone to listen to her and then she passed out.” Octavia pauses to draw a large breath. “And then they brought you in looking like death and three Grounders had their knives out pointed at your mom like they were going to do something. And Indra said something like _Do what must be done for_ something something _Skaikru_ , and I don’t know what it means and nobody will tell me so I guess I’ll have to just wait until Lincoln wakes up – he’s concussed but he’s okay otherwise – and now you’re here.” Unexpectedly Octavia surges to her feet and limps the three steps from her own cot to Clarke’s to wrap her shoulders in an awkward hug. “I missed you.” Clarke knows that she doesn’t just mean since the battle.

When she attempts to awkwardly grip Octavia’s arm to return the hug, she finds that her left arm won’t move. “Oh yeah, your mom said your collarbone was shattered. The Mountain Men had some really great stuff for it that’ll make it heal in no time but you won’t be able to move it for like a week. They had some really great stuff for the pain, too,” Octavia says, grinning as she pulls away, and Clarke can’t help but return it.

“You’re high as a kite right now, aren’t you?”

“Oh, totally.”

Very slowly and carefully, Clarke sits up. She can feel every muscle in her body involved in the motion complain furiously as she does so, but she needs to make sure that she and Octavia aren’t somehow the only humans left alive in the Mountain. “Bellamy?”

Octavia grins in relief that brightens her wan grey features. “Alive. Some pretty nasty chemical burns and a non-lethal bullet wound, and he was in so much pain your mom put him under. But he's alive, Clarke. I got to hug him before he fell asleep.”

Clarke smiles at her, but she's too busy mentally running through her checklist of those under her care to linger too long on one, heroic though he might have been. As she ticks through the list, Octavia answers each one: Jasper, broken ribs and lacerations; Monty, broken ankle; Marcus Kane, head injury; and on and on. There's one name that keeps rising to her lips, and while she doesn't say it, Octavia hears it anyway. “She’s upstairs, in her own room. Alive, as far as I know.”

“Do you think I can walk?”

Octavia shrugs, then winces. “Don’t see why not. I’m the one with the bum leg, not you.” She makes a pouty face. “Nyko said I should be off it for two weeks. Nicked an artery; I was lucky they got to me in time. A minute or so more and I’d be dead.”

“Looking pretty good for a corpse,” Clarke observes drily, and levers her legs over the edge of the cot. It hurts, but not unbearably; Clarke takes this as a good sign. She lets her eyes refocus in the dark, takes in a chair, a shelf, a cart on which various medical supplies are placed, and a row of cots stretching away into the darkness. Shapes move dimly on some of them. Eventually she finds the door and wincingly manages to make her way towards it; even though there’s nothing wrong with her legs, they’re tired, and every movement seems to jostle her arm. Clearly Clarke hasn’t been given as much of the giggle juice as Octavia has.

Yet when Octavia speaks next, her voice is surprisingly clear: “She’s down the hall, up the stairs, and to the right. First door on the left. I could hear her yelling about an hour ago, and your mom went to check on her. She’s probably trying to convince them to let her sedate her so she can’t be such a pain in the ass.” Clarke doesn’t need to ask who; she just chuckles tiredly and nods. As she’s about to leave the room, Octavia calls after her, “Clarke… Be careful, okay?” Clarke isn’t sure whether her friend means on the journey, or with her injuries, or with the Commander; it might be any of them, or all of them. But the care in her voice that hasn’t been there since the missile at Tondc is back, and it makes Clarke turn to Octavia once more and smile.

“I promise.”

After climbing a set of stairs and following a twisting corridor Clarke realizes that her brain, still foggy, has forgotten about half of Octavia’s directions, and Mount Weather is an unmapped warren: it’d be easy to get impossibly lost. But after a minute or so of weighing the merits of various unmarked corridors she hears a voice echoing up one of them in an imperious tone, and with a roll of her eyes she sets off down it at a slightly faster shuffle. She levers the door open with her good shoulder to see Indra and Ryder pleading with Lexa, who is propped up on a pillow with her arms crossed. Her mother is standing off to the side with an IV needle in one gloved hand and the other hand itching towards a syringe filled with what Clarke would bet anything is a sedative. Probably two more minutes of this nonsense and Abby will lose patience and jab it into Lexa’s neck.

Lexa is arguing swiftly with her generals in Trigedasleng, and while Clarke certainly doesn’t have the command of the language that Octavia does she catches a few words: _can’t trust_ and _won’t_ and _Skaikru poison_ and _Klark_. Clarke’s eyes narrow; so that’s what this is about. She shuffles forward unnoticed by any of them until she’s elbowing Ryder aside (stifling a wince at the jolt to her shoulder) and shoving Lexa down onto the bed, pinning her with a murderous look (because even with a very large hole in her side, Lexa’s definitely stronger than her). “You ass,” she hisses, leaning very close to her face. “You complete idiot. I did _not_ make it all the way through the battle of Mount Weather and out of a really creepy sick bay to watch you _die_ because you don’t trust Skaikru medicine. Now lie back and let my mother look at you.”

Lexa looks startled at first, but at Clarke’s directives her eyes blaze challenge. “You do not command –” she begins, but Clarke’s had more than enough.

“I do,” she says firmly. “You listen to me right now, _Leksa kom Trikru_ , or I’ll never do this again.” And she leans down and kisses Lexa, putting all the force of fury and relief she can into it, until Lexa stills and relaxes under her, winding one hand into her hair.

When she breaks the kiss to let Lexa breathe – because at this moment she’d be perfectly content kissing her forever, but Lexa’s chest is heaving under hers and she’d bet anything she’s putting pressure on some broken ribs – she doesn’t pull away entirely, but leans her forehead against Lexa’s and breathes in her scent. Woodsmoke, warpaint, blood, and earth – smells that Clarke had never known in the antiseptic warrens of the Ark, and are thus uniquely Lexa to her. When Lexa speaks it makes Clarke tremble, to hear the quiet wonder in her voice. “You came back to me,” she says.

Clarke sighs. “Yes. And now I need you to do the same for me – in this lifetime. Do you understand?” Lexa squirms under her a little bit and Clarke tightens her grip until she stills.

“Yes.”

“Good. Now do what my mother tells you, and I’ll have someone set up a cot in here for me.”

“Good,” Lexa sighs, the word turning into a jaw-cracking yawn that surprises them both. Clarke pulls back to glare at her.

“Have you just been lying up here trying to boss people around this entire time?” Lexa crosses her arms and looks mulish, and Clarke turns to Indra. “Has she?”

“She is Heda,” Indra says firmly, but with a hint of mirth in her tone; Lexa attempts to scowl at her general but it’s ruined by another yawn.

"Stop making a pest of yourself and get some sleep,” Clarke orders, turning back to Lexa, who’s already struggling against flickering eyelids. “I promise I’ll be here in the morning.”

“In this lifetime?” Lexa says, a sleepy hint of teasing in her tone that Clarke isn’t sure she’s ever heard before, and isn’t quite sure she’s hearing now. It might be, she thinks, the girl Lexa could have been had she not been the Commander, not Heda. For the first time she wonders if Lexa even knows who that girl is. Maybe, if they all make it through this, she’ll get to find out. But for now, she needs rest.

“In this lifetime,” Clarke promises, taking Lexa’s hand, running her thumb over scarred and bruised knuckles, and watches the Commander’s eyes slide shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Out of the Woods," Taylor Swift
> 
> As usual, let me know your thoughts. Also, if anyone's a Trigedasleng or Grounder culture expert, hit me up - I'd love to pick your brain. When I use Trigedasleng words I do my best to use the ones established in canon, but sometimes I need words that haven't been made up yet, so I make them up myself according to the rules of the language that I've been able to discern - i.e., I either mash together two words that have already been established, or make something up by slurring English words. But if anybody's got a better idea I'd be happy to hear it.


	2. Cycle of recycled revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great response to the first chapter! It definitely got me excited to post the next ones. I'm going to try to put up at least a chapter a week, but we'll see how it goes. Teamwork makes the dream work (my new favorite phrase and I have been abusing it heavily) - in this case teamwork means your input and the dream is new chapters. 
> 
> Thanks again to my sister narniancreampuff for the beta - hit us up on tumblr (I'm hedakomtrashkru) and let us know what you think! 
> 
> See the end of the chapter for notes on the Trigedasleng used in this chapter.

Lexa wakes feeling like there’s a blanket over her thoughts, focusing blearily on the light filtering down from the ceiling panels, and the sensation of fingers entwined with her own.

She slowly turns her head, somewhat unable to believe that this is real and that she's alive and so is Clarke, and Clarke’s sleeping on a cot beside her with her fingers tangled with Lexa’s. She's almost afraid to breathe because if she does it'll shatter the dream; she'll wake to a hell of mud and blood or, worse, a tomorrow that doesn't have Clarke in it. The thought makes her breath catch in her chest. This is terrifying. How has she gone so quickly from _hodnes laik kwelnes_ to almost shaking at the thought of losing Clarke?

This can't happen, she thinks. She needs to be strong for her people. Before anything she is Heda first, and her heart takes last place. She needs to remember that. There cannot be another Costia. There cannot be another time like after Costia, when she was absent in her people’s time of need. Until the dead are buried and the wounded are seen to, she must put Clarke – and by extension herself – aside. _Stedaunon don gon we en kikon ste enti_ , she tells herself.

Yet when she tries to remove her hand from Clarke’s the Sky Girl’s fingers tighten, and she lets out a sleepy grumble that Lexa curses herself twelve times for finding adorable. It sounds something like “five more minutes, Mom,” and Lexa can't help herself: she chuckles.

That wakes Clarke up with a start, blue eyes meeting grey, and for a moment she thinks she sees fear in Lexa’s eyes. But it's soon gone, the mask of the Commander slipping over her features like a closing airlock. “Good morning, Clarke,” she says evenly, removing her hand from Clarke’s under pretense of picking at the tape holding her IV needle in place.

Clarke feels her heart sink. So this is how it's going to be: like allies again, fellow warriors and leaders but nothing more. She decides to test it by slapping Lexa’s hand away from the needle. “Don’t touch it, you might rip open a vein if you try to take it out. And I'm not saving your ass if you start spraying blood everywhere.”

The Commander’s gaze snaps to hers, her eyes cold and her words low and even. “Clarke, you cannot speak to me this way. Not in front of our people. They need us both to be strong, not squabbling like children.”

“Then let yourself return to strength; don't act like a child and fear the things you don't understand,” Clarke says, gaze boring into Lexa’s, meaning far more than just the IV and the fluids trickling down it.

“I'm not afraid,” Lexa snarls, leaning closer to Clarke, eyes gone dark with fury.

“Then prove it,” Clarke hisses back, and she's reaching for the Commander’s lips as the door swings open, making them both jump back guiltily.

It reveals both Indra and Abby Griffin first, and they're leveling mortifyingly similar looks at Lexa and Clarke respectively. The younger women blanch, and Lexa breaks the silence by asking Abby, in as level a voice as she can manage considering she nearly got caught kissing her daughter like a _yongplan_ with no self control, “Clarke informs me that I am under no circumstances to remove this from my body unaided. So how much longer, Abby Griffin, must I expect to stay attached to it? My people need me; there are decisions that must be made for both the living and the dead.”

“You’ll need to let me check your wound for infection,” Abby says, leveling her disapproving look at Lexa now. But the Commander has better control of herself at this point and she simply nods imperiously, making Clarke roll her eyes.

As Abby moves to pull the covers back from Lexa, Clarke sees a lot more skin than she’s accustomed to – a dark, intricate tattoo twining down the firm line of a hip, a taut stomach, and oh, so that’s what the Grounders wear under their clothes – and blushes, looks away. This is not lost on Lexa, who says, almost gently, “Perhaps, Clarke, you should look to your own people. I’m sure there are many wounded who could use the reassurance of the _Heda kom Skaikru_.”

Clarke knows an out being offered when she sees one and nods, still unable to look at Lexa and oh god, her mother, her mother was there to see her almost kiss Lexa and the blush when she’d seen – Clarke limps out the door as quickly as she can, putting it firmly from her thoughts before the mortification can paralyze her completely. Maybe Lexa is right, she thinks as she makes her way to the sick bay where she’d first awakened, and where she assumes lie the greatest concentration of injured. Maybe it would be best to put aside her feelings as well as she can and focus on the tasks at hand.

And there are so, so many of them. Clarke spends nearly the entire morning comforting the wounded, reassuring them that the medicine they’re receiving is healthful and not poisonous; Grounder injured are scattered indiscriminately among the Sky People, so she finds herself tending to them as well, checking an IV here, re-bandaging a wound there, calling for help with stitches that have pulled loose or a recalcitrant warrior in a haze of pain and fear. The work eases her mind as she hoped it might, and by the time she looks up a clock on the wall reads noon, and she’s starving.

Unsure of where she might find food, she’s wandering the corridors when she bumps into a firm chest. She looks up – “Bellamy!” She throws her arms around him, kisses his cheek. He staggers and she steadies herself and him quickly. “What are you doing up and walking?”

Bellamy grins. “Turns out the Mountain Men have quite the treasure trove of medicine. Octavia said your mom got so excited she had to leave the room for a sec. But it turns out they have some pretty great stuff for burns, and that was the worst of it for me, so…” He spreads his hands. “I’m still not 100 percent, but I’m not on death’s door anymore either. So go easy on me, huh?”

Clarke grins, fake-punches him. “Never. You're a war hero now.”

Bellamy does his best aw-shucks impression. “Do I get a medal?”

For a second it’s almost like nothing has happened – like they’re just kids on a camping trip like in the stories of Old Earth, who’ve had some kind of adventure but are ready to return home now. But they aren’t kids, she realizes, looking up at the cuts and bruises and shadows on Bellamy’s face. Not anymore. They’ve led a nation to war and come out the other side. What they are she can’t say, but whatever it is was forged in fire.

“Apparently there’s food,” Bellamy says, snapping her out of her thoughts. “I didn’t think you’d be one to miss that so your mom sent me to tell you. It’s in the main dining hall.”

She follows Bellamy through the corridors, content to let him lead her and not have to think, and they emerge into the long chamber bright with fluorescents. It reminds her sickeningly of the cafeteria on the Ark, and she understands just how much she’s grown to love the sun, the open air. Back when they’d first landed on Earth she couldn’t imagine how people lived this way, out in the open, exposed to the elements at almost all times, but now she realizes she could never go without it. Maybe she _has_ gone Grounder.

She grabs a plate and starts heaping it indiscriminately with the stuff on the table, instant things that are quick and simple to prepare and that apparently some of the kids locked in Mount Weather, who had been assigned to the kitchen detail, had laid out for them. She’s tucking in to her second helping of everything when the doors slam open again, and in sweeps Lexa in full battle dress and warpaint, flanked by her generals. The roar of conversation in the hall stops for a moment as Lexa surveys the assembly of Grounders and Sky People, her face unreadable as ever. Her eyes sweep over Clarke and hold her gaze for a moment, but Clarke sees no hint of recognition besides an almost imperceptible nod.

Then Lexa and her entourage make their way to the banquet table and start filling plates with food, and the hum of conversation resumes, albeit at a more subdued rate. Abby enters the hall shortly afterwards with Nyko, looking somewhat murderous, and after grabbing her own lunch sits down next to Kane at the table the Skaikru have claimed, carefully not looking at Clarke. But she’s not far enough away to not hear Clarke when she says, “What is she doing out of bed? Did you tell her she could be out of bed?”  

“Not a whole lot I could do about it,” Abby snaps around a mouthful of cornbread, still not looking at her daughter. “I think I would have a riot on my hands if I tried to keep her in there a minute longer.”

Clarke nods. “I could’ve told you that. Not even a week after a mutant gorilla nearly kills her she’s back on the training ground.” Not that she’d watched or anything.

Abby finally looks at her and it’s sharp. Clarke interests herself in her food, even though there’s not much left on her plate. Mercifully, however, her mother doesn’t appear interested in talking more than shop. “The good news is she’s not infected and she seems to be healing up pretty well. Psychotic as the Mountain Men might have been they knew what they were doing when it came to medicine. As long as she rests frequently and doesn’t pull her stitches, she should come through all right. Plus Nyko will be watching her every move.”

Clarke snorts at the thought of Lexa resting. They eat without speaking for a while longer, but Clarke hears the silence ringing loudly with the things they’re not saying to one another: _How could you do it? How could you let those people die, and turn around not even a week later to condemn others to death again? I raised you to be a healer, to preserve life, and yet all it takes is a Grounder with a heart of stone and you’re ordering your friends to die for you. Where is the daughter I raised? I think she must have died when I first sent her to Earth._

 _I had to,_ Clarke wishes she could tell her mother.  _It killed me to do it - it's killing me now - but if I hadn't Bellamy would be dead and hundreds more and we wouldn't be able to be sitting here eating shitty food and ignoring each other._

She hears Abby draw a breath and thinks that _now_ is when the onslaught will come, but before she can face having to answer about her behavior she hears a chair scrape against the floor, and looks up to see Lexa standing, holding a glass in the air. “ _Gon wina gon laut!”_ she says, and while Clarke doesn’t know the words it sounds like a ritual. And, it seems, it is: the rest of the Grounders are standing too, and raising their own glasses if they have them, their fists if they don’t. They repeat the words back to Lexa: “ _Gon wina gon laut!”_

“We honor those who fought and died,” Lexa says, her tone level, her gaze calmly sweeping the room. Her eyes do not meet Clarke’s this time; they hover somewhere above her head. “They were heroes, victors even in death, and their spirits will pass on to the lands of their ancestors. Tonight at sunset we will honor them according to the customs of their people. Today, however, we deal with the living. We honor those who fought and lived – they too are heroes who contributed to our victory. _Gon wina gon laut!”_ The words are chanted back at her again, and this time accompanied with banging on tables and beating metal cutlery against plates. Clarke feels a shiver run down her spine with the energy in the room.

“Yet we must also decide what to do with the conquered,” Lexa says, her voice low and sounding like death, and a low rumble sweeps the room, echoing her. The shiver runs up Clarke’s spine again, for a different reason this time. She remembers that Lexa’s people thirst for blood – how could she forget, when she’s seen Finn and Raven and Gustus and the countless others that Lexa’s had tortured and killed – but somehow she’d managed to ignore it for a while. Probably the unexpected softness of lips against hers, the unexpected gentleness of calloused hands, had had something to do with it. She sets her jaw. Again Lexa is being proven right.

“After our meal I ask that the leaders of the Twelve Clans meet with me in the upper chamber to decide the fate of those enemies who yet live,” Lexa says, and then, after a beat, her eyes finally do meet Clarke’s. “And the leaders of the Sky People, without whom this victory would not have happened.” She raises her glass again. “To the _Skaikru_!”

Her people roar in answer.

* * *

Lexa eats quickly and then leaves the hall with Indra and Nyko, whom she knows is under direct orders from Abby to keep her from exerting herself but whom she sees as a necessary evil. There’s much to be done and she resents the restrictions that have been placed on her, but she knows what the consequences will be if she circumvents them. She can’t afford another outburst like Clarke’s, not in front of her leaders. Thankfully it had only happened in the presence of her closest advisors, but she had felt Indra’s eyes on her throughout the meal, gazing along the sightlines between her and the Sky Girl, and had carefully avoided following them. She could see the hurt in Clarke’s eyes when she’d not recognized her in any way other than the most formal, but she’d deal with that later. Affairs of the heart came after affairs of her people. It was to Clarke’s credit, she thinks, that she considered them at all.

The chamber is apparently where the little white rat Cage Wallace had held his own council meetings, and at the silent insistence of her generals Lexa takes the seat that’s offered her, at the head of a long steel table, and begins drumming her fingertips on it as she waits for the rest of the clan leaders to finish their meals and file in. Cage had shouted from the cage (she smirks at the thought) in the basement that she’d had him locked in that as a defeated leader he had the right to bargain, to be offered terms, but she hadn’t even acknowledged him. He’s less than an insect to her, to be crushed under her heel. And yet she’d have to consider how he and his people might answer for the deaths of hers. How could thousands of deaths be inflicted on perhaps a hundred survivors? To that conundrum she has no answer.

The clan leaders begin to trickle in with their entourages, taking their accustomed positions at her table. Her closest allies, those of the Bear Clan, the Stone Men, and the Bird People – the Mountain Clans – sit in the chairs closest to her, their seconds standing behind their chairs and their attendants plying them with water. Lexa has forbidden the consumption of any other liquid – she wants everyone to have a clear head for the business at hand, and she can’t be certain if any of the fluids the Mountain Men keep are poisoned. As the leaders continue to file in, she finds herself watching the door for a flash of bright yellow, and scolds herself for it roundly, clenching her restless fingers around the hilt of her sword instead.

Clarke and her mother slip in last, followed by Marcus Kane, Octavia, and Lincoln, just as Lexa’s about to give them up as a lost cause and start the proceedings. She makes to stand but feels Nyko’s hand on her shoulder – not pressing, but simply a reminder. Fine – if only to keep Clarke happy. She raises her chin, and the low buzz of chatter stops. “We meet to discuss the fate of the remaining Mountain Men,” she says. “We all know the laws of our people – _jus drein jus daun_.” Her words are echoed quietly by the group. “The blood that has been spilled in the battle is nowhere near enough to answer the decades that have been stolen from us, the lives we have lost. Therefore I ask: what punishment do you desire that will give our people the justice they deserve?”

Answers are shouted: burning – flaying – torture – beheading – and Lexa lets them go on for a while, get it out of their systems. Then she queries each leader in turn: “Marko of the Bear Tribe, what is your opinion?”

"I would accord them the harshest punishment our people impose, Heda,” he says, his voice shaking with anger. “Those who most offend our laws are tied with four ropes, tied to four horses, and those horses are whipped until they run and scatter the offender to the four corners of the earth.”

Lexa nods at him, then turns to the next leader. “And you, Luka of the Riverwalkers? What is your justice?”

The woman’s face darkens in fury, enhanced by the ritual scars etched from her forehead to her cheeks. “You know our ways, Heda. I would treat these bottom feeders – these leeches – as we do the lowest of the low, those who wrong us in such a way that their crimes are unforgivable, even in the sight of the gods. We gut them like fish and feed their entrails to carrion birds, and bury their bodies in the muck where they may feed their own kind.”

Lexa acknowledges her and continues on down the row. As she nears Clarke’s position she watches the girl carefully, notes the looks of shock and horror that cross her face as she hears each proposed fate. At the end, she’s looking sickened. _So, Clarke of the Sky People_ , Lexa thinks, _in the end the justice of the Tree Clan is not the most horrifying. Our people can think up far worse._

An argument has broken out between the head general of the Ice Nation – a vast glacier of a man named Conrad – and her ally Marko, as is usual for each clan gathering. Lexa knows that if she allows them to split along traditional allegiance lines the discussion will grind to a halt, so she holds up her hand and calls, “ _Shof op!_ ” They do immediately, though they continue glaring at one another. “One leader has not yet weighed in,” Lexa says, glancing around the group to see if any will contest her assertion. “Clarke of the Sky People, what do your people demand as justice?”

Clarke can only stare at Lexa, the images that she’s been given filling her mind with horrors. She knows the Mountain Men are monsters, that what they’ve done – and how long they’ve been doing it for – is unforgivable. She wants them dead just as much as everyone around the table. But she doesn’t want to have to watch nearly a hundred people buried alive, or ripped apart, or ritually disemboweled with dull knives… And then there are the innocent, those who lived in the mountain but took no part in its depredations, those who were too young to understand what was happening there. Clarke knows that the Grounders look to mete out justice indiscriminately, but she can’t allow it.

Her brain is racing. What kind of answer can she give the Commander, who’s looking at her with that implacable gaze, so unlike the soft ones she’s been seeing more and more lately? Where is that Lexa? She has no place at this table, Clarke knows. This is the Lexa that demanded Finn as the price for the truce, that tied Raven to a pole and gave her to the mercy of her people, that drove her sword slowly through Gustus’s heart. And this Lexa demands an answer.

Slowly, so that her voice doesn’t shake, Clarke says, staring around at the assembly, “My people have not suffered for generations as yours have, it’s true. The crimes that the Mountain Men have committed would be more than enough to condemn them to death under my people’s laws, yet the deaths they’d have are swift and clean. And maybe,” she says, steeling herself with the images of the injuries carried by her friends and the horrors that she had witnessed in the bowels of Mount Weather, “there’s something to trading suffering for suffering.” She hears her mother’s quick intake of breath and sees Kane’s sharp look out of the corner of her eye, and hurries to go on.

“But it’s as the Commander says – nothing we could do to the remaining enemy can match the pain that they have caused us all, and that this place has caused us all. There are those in this mountain who have had no part in this – those who were innocent and merely trying to survive – and they should not have to share in the suffering. As for the rest…” Clarke steels herself for what she’s about to say next, conscious of Lexa’s eyes on her. “The Mountain Men thought you were savages and monsters, but they were the monsters. I propose that we take all that we can from Mount Weather and then leave the rest in their stronghold and seal it shut. Blast every exit and entrance. Then we’ll see who the real savages are.”

The room erupts in a cacophony of shouting, and Clarke can’t tell whether it’s for or against her. She doesn’t try – most of it’s in Trigedasleng anyway – but her eyes are seeking Lexa’s, begging for a sign that the Commander understands, that she’ll not simply call Clarke weak or belittle her. Instead, she finds acceptance, relief even – perhaps Lexa is as sick of violence as she is. There is a small, slow nod.

Lexa lets the shouting go on for a while longer before she calls the room to order. There’s a lot of furious arguing in Trigedasleng – Lincoln is translating fast and low for the Sky People, his words hurrying over one another in an attempt to keep up with the movement of the conversation – but Clarke can barely hear him. She feels dazed, adrift, and keeps her eyes on Lexa as an anchor, watching her make points, put out fires, defuse tension, break apart stubborn allegiances. She _was_ born for this, Clarke realizes. She’s a consummate leader. The question is, can she be anything else? She hates herself for holding that question in her mind – now is _definitely_ not the time, she should be paying attention and making her own arguments and defending her position with the rest – but all she can do is watch and wait, exhausted and heartsick, as the argument rages on.

And, impossibly, Lexa does it. One by one, as the hour hand inches slowly around the clock, she coaxes, threatens, reasons with, and browbeats the clan leaders to her position, breaking down their arguments one by one. She seems to know what each one needs to hear, and says it. When Clarke chances a glance beside her, Marcus Kane looks impressed. Finally, the lone holdout is the head general of the Ice Nation – he continues arguing with Lexa, insisting on his people’s tradition of feeding their enemies to starving _aztig_ – which Lincoln translates as _ice tigers_ – and Lexa finally loses her patience. The general has risen out of his seat to lean across the table towards her, spit flying as he shouts, and Lexa rises sharply as well. One hand goes to the hilt of her sword, an action echoed by her seconds; the other slams down on the table, hard.

“ _Em pleni!”_

Conrad growls, but sits back down. “I have heard the words of the leaders and our decision is made,” Lexa says. “Your words have weight but you are merely a general, and we don’t have time to wait for your Queen.” Lexa knows her argument is lazy and courting trouble – the Ice Queen never comes to battle, and her lead general, as her representative, is almost always accorded the same respect as she – but she’s tiring quickly and knows that she’ll need to rest if she’s going to be able to preside over the memorial services for her people’s dead. “The sentencing will be carried out tomorrow at midday, after we have taken all that we can from Mount Weather. Once all of our people are prepared to leave we will carry out the justice. Any disputes shall be brought to me.”

She rises to go and finds her legs disconcertingly unwilling to carry her, but she clenches her jaw and hardens her muscles and does her best not to stagger. The medicine Abby Griffin had given her must be wearing off, she thinks; the pain is seeping down her side in hot red waves and muddling her brain. Her hesitation leaves her open for the next question, from the second general of the Ice Nation, who says quietly, “And what of the Coalition, Heda?”

Lexa whirls on him, her voice rougher than she’d like it to be. “What?”

“Shall it continue after we have left here? Are we to bow to you as our Heda in perpetuity? These are things my queen wishes to know.”

“I’m sure she does,” Lexa growls before she can stop herself, and steadies herself with a hand on her chair to keep from shaking in fury. She swallows, closes her eyes, licks her lips, and forces her anger back to heel. “Those are important questions, Blekaz of the Ice Nation, and they deserve their due consideration, but there are more pressing matters at hand. After justice has been served we will each return to our own lands, to heal our people and rebuild our homes, and when the spring comes we will meet again at Polis to discuss the future of our clans – together or apart. Does this answer satisfy your queen?”

Blekaz merely nods, his eyes and voice mild. “I am certain it will, for now. And yet there is one further matter: that of the Sky People.”

Lexa loses her temper yet again, eyes flashing fury. “What is your quarrel with them?”

“Perhaps your reaction answers my question, Heda,” he says pleasantly, and Lexa curses herself twelve times for a fool. “After we leave, how will they be disposed of? Are they to remain in their encampment among your people, or will they be settled amongst us? Are they free, or can they be taken as slaves?”

She hears a shocked and furious noise from Clarke and whips her head around to flash a warning at her with her eyes. Several of the Ice Nations and some of the River People do take slaves, people captured in battle or nomads passing through, though her own Trikru do not and abhor the practice. It had never come up, regrettably.

“At this time the status of the Sky People is that they are under my protection,” Lexa says, turning back to the Ice Nation general and putting as much weight into each of her words as she can. “They are not to be harassed or taken captive or in any way treated differently than a member of one of our Clans. Anyone who cannot respect this will answer to me.” She glares around the room, daring each of them to demur. Some of them nod; some look down in deference. When she’s satisfied that she has their agreement, she nods. “This _hukopgeda_ is over. Honor your dead and tend to your living, and tomorrow we will have justice for all of them.” She puts the last of her strength into sweeping grandly from the hall and hopes that she can make it to her room without anyone seeing how weak their Heda has become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Death and All His Friends," Coldplay
> 
> Trigedasleng:
> 
> * means I've made stuff up.
> 
> Hodnes laik kwelnes: love is weakness
> 
> Stedaunon don gon we en kikon ste enti: The dead are gone and the living are hungry
> 
> *Yongplan: teenage girl. From yongon (child) and plan (woman). Literally child woman.
> 
> Gon *wina gon *laut: to the victor go the spoils. Gon is go; wina is slurred from winner and laut is slurred from loot. 
> 
> Jus drein jus daun: blood must have blood
> 
> Shof op: Be quiet
> 
> Em pleni: That's enough
> 
> *Aztig: ice tiger. From az (ice) and *tig (tiger). Giant mutated white tiger that lives in Ice Nation territory.
> 
> *Hukopgeda: alliance meeting. From hukop (alliance) and geda (meet), so literally alliance-meet.


	3. To know you is hard/all wrong, we warn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading and reviewing, and to my sister, galpalkru on tumblr, for the beta! Hope you guys like this one - things are picking up! 
> 
> As always, see the end of the chapter for notes on the Trigedasleng I used. And let me know your thoughts! It really makes my day to hear from you guys.

Lexa’s certain Clarke has a million questions and none of them are ones she wants to answer. She remembers the shock and horror on Clarke’s face and the gasp from her mother when Blekaz had posed his questions, and she knows that she’s going to have a lot of work to do to keep the Skaikru in line. But she’s tired, so very, very tired, and she knows that if she doesn’t rest now it’s entirely possible she’ll pass out at some point during the evening’s proceedings, with any luck at the time most likely to provoke a civil war. She bites back a groan as Clarke comes charging into her room, closely followed by her mother. They both have the same furious look on their faces – so furious that it makes Indra’s hand stray to her sword – but Lexa raises her hand to calm her and tries to keep her gaze steady on Clarke. It won’t do for anyone to see how much the Sky Girl affects her – least of all the Sky Girl herself.

Lexa expects a joint onslaught but Abby seems content to let her daughter take point on this one, busying herself instead with checking Lexa’s bandages and slipping the IV needle back under her skin. Clarke opens and closes her mouth a couple of times like she’s got so much rage she can’t find the words to express it all. Lexa keeps her face impassive, a mask, and waits.

“I can’t believe you!” Clarke finally bursts out, advancing towards Lexa’s bed where she sits, so calm it makes Clarke want to hit her. She gets close enough that Indra moves to intercept her, growling “That’s close enough,” but Lexa says with infuriating calmness, “No. Let her approach. I have nothing to fear from her.”

“You sure about that?” Clarke snaps, but forces her fists to unclench and her posture to relax. After a moment of hesitation and a sharp look from Lexa, Indra steps aside and allows Clarke to approach the bed. The Commander’s hand is outstretched on the covers and twitches as Clarke nears, as though she expects her to reach for it, but then it stills.

“You have questions for me, Clarke,” Lexa says, tilting her head, her eyes unreadable.

“You think?” Clarke bites off. “Why didn’t you tell us about – slaves? And incorporating us into your territory? About – about _them?”_

“To whom are you referring, Clarke?” Lexa replies, in an even way that Clarke is certain must be calculated to drive her mad. “The Ice Nation? My people? Grounders as a whole? You need to be more specific.”

Clarke is so angry she can’t speak for a moment, but she forces herself to emulate Lexa and drives the anger underground. “You didn’t tell me that your people took slaves, or that they’d want to take us.”

“ _My_ people don’t,” Lexa says, eyes narrowing. “We condemn the practice. The Azgeda – the Ice Nation – does. They tend to restrict their depredations to the nomadic tribes and those who sometimes wander down from the northern wastelands, but sometimes they get greedy and steal from one of the Clans. We’ve gone to war with them before over that.”

“Why don’t you _stop_ them?”

“My people have had enough of civil war,” Lexa says sharply, eyes cutting into Clarke. “That was all we knew for a very long time, until the Mountain Men began their experiments. That was what drew us together: a common enemy. They were indiscriminate, taking from Trikru and Azgeda alike. We formed our Coalition so they could be stopped. Now it stands on the edge of a cliff, and you seem intent on pushing it off. Can you tell me why you find that wise, given that my authority as Heda over all is the only thing protecting you from them? Those Clans who live in the Mountains, like mine, don’t take slaves as a rule, but they have long memories and are not so quick to forgive the deaths of their people at the hands of yours.”

“ _Because they tried to kill us first!_ ”

“And do you blame them?” Lexa snaps, and Clarke is momentarily gratified to see her losing an ounce of her cool. “You’ve been down here long enough to know what our life is like. Unknown things are often things that will kill you, so it’s better to strike first and take inventory later. Besides, appearance-wise you have more in common with the Mountain Men than you do with us – or you did.” Her gaze rakes over Clarke’s body, which is clothed in a long protective overcoat; her arms and legs are covered with the vambraces and greaves that she’d worn for the battle. She’d put them back on that morning because they made her feel stronger, more like a leader. They had, of course, been borrowed from Lexa, but she’d found herself reluctant to return them and Lexa had not asked.

“So what do we have to do to prove ourselves equal to you? To end the threat of capture or murder once and for all?” Clarke says, inwardly despairing. This again? Just when she’d thought the fight was over, the threat was gone and the people of the Ark were safe, Lexa is telling her that her war is just beginning. She turns away, feeling like she could sleep forever. Lexa seems to understand this, because when she speaks again her tone is softer.

“It’s not that simple, Clarke,” she says. “It won’t be easy, either. Our lives are harsh and our ways often stark and very set. They are that way for a reason: it’s what we have learned we must do to survive. But I’ve bought you time to rest and recover, and then we can plan our next move.”

“Our?” Clarke says, turning to meet Lexa’s eyes. Lexa swallows hard.

“Our.”

* * *

Clarke leaves shortly after exchanging quiet words with her mother (which Lexa strongly suspects involve methods to keep her in bed), and Abby lingers to change Lexa’s bandages. Lexa orders her generals out into the hall, to guard the door as she attempts to sleep and to give her privacy as Abby works. She’s not ashamed of her body in the least – her people don’t have the same concept of shame regarding nudity as the Skaikruseem to do – but the treatment of wounds, and the admission of weakness it requires, is a different story. Healers among the Trigedakru do not work in large wards as Abby and her assistants seem to be used to; they visit the injured or the ill in their homes, or take them into theirs. It’s causing some tension and resentment among the injured, as many of the Grounders object to being treated in full sight of their brethren. But Lexa has ordered her generals to spread it around that this is a hardship that must be borne, as there simply is not enough space or manpower to let each person needing treatment have their own room. She decides to ask Abby if there is any way they can give them at least the semblance of privacy, however – a curtain, or a shroud of some kind that –

"I need your help, Commander," Abby interrupts, and Lexa’s eyebrows rise. The words are stiff and awkward on her tongue, but Lexa recognizes a formal supplication when she hears it.

“Tell me what you need, Abby Griffin of the Sky People,” Lexa says, just as formally.

“It’s about the people of Mount Weather, the ones whose lives you’ve agreed to spare. If we send them out into the wilderness with nothing but the radiation suits, it’ll be as bad as murdering them, or worse. They’ll have no food, no survival skills, and if their suits get even one tiny little hole they’re done for.”

“Agreed,” Lexa says, slightly impatient. She’s anxious to have Abby finish with her and leave her to sleep, so she can better handle tonight’s ceremonies. “What concern is this of mine? They’re not my people, or yours. As far as I’m concerned, I’m showing extraordinary mercy by not leaving them to be sealed away with the rest. What would you ask of me, Chancellor?” She attempts to stare the older woman down, but the eyes she meets are, like her daughter’s, similarly difficult to cow.

“I believe that with use of the technology and science we may find in the Mountain, and with what we have at Camp Jaha, I may be able to create a synthetic alternative to the marrow treatments that will allow them to live their lives on ground fully, like us. In time we may be able to integrate them into our society, or they can strike out on their own, but at least it will give them a _chance_ –”

" _Em pleni_ ,” Lexa growls. “You know on whose lands they’d be living. You know what they’ve done to my people, what they _would_ do given the chance. I’m giving them their lives. Let them choose what to do with them, but I’ll take no part in it.”

Abby’s face turns cold, calculating, but her voice lowers and becomes soothing. “You’ll be condemning them to death just as surely as if you put them to the sword yourself,” she says. “You know it’s true. If Clarke were here –”

“Clarke is _not_ here,” Lexa hisses, seething with rage and a fear she struggles mightily to tamp down. “And if she were my answer would be the same. Clarke does not make decisions for me; she does not hold sway with me, no more than any other of my leaders. Do not attempt to use Clarke as a means to convince me of your ends. It will not work.”

Abby drops any pretense of politeness. “You and I both know that’s not true. Either you’re lying to her or you’re lying to me, but either way you’re not telling the truth, Lexa.”

Lexa feels rage and fear snap through her chest. “Do not call me a liar again, Abby Griffin, or be prepared to face the consequences. And do not attempt to manipulate me using what I don’t and _can’t_ feel for your daughter. Clarke is nothing more to me than an ally.”

Abby nods and ties off Lexa’s bandage with a sharp tug that makes her suck in a breath. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, then. You’ve let enough people die.”

“Leave me,” Lexa says through clenched teeth. “And don’t let me see you again this night, or I will have you killed. If I need help, I will call Nyko.”

Abby Griffin nods, her face inscrutable in the dimming room. As she’s about to leave, she pauses at the door. “As to whether you can’t care for Clarke…sounds like it’s already too late for that.”

Lexa feels like screaming, like throwing something, like drawing her sword and running the Skaikru woman through. But her people need her to remain detached, and her people take precedence in _all_ things. She learned that lesson too long ago and too thoroughly to forget now, certainly not for some girl who just fell out of the sky.

She throws herself back against her pillow and shuts her eyes, swiftly dropping into a restless sleep. She dreams, as always, of Costia, of the screams, of the smell of blood, and of the noise of a blade sawing through flesh and bone. But when the severed head rolls to her feet this time and she picks it up again, holding the face that was beloved and is now ruined, screaming until her throat bleeds, it’s not Costia she sees, but Clarke.    

* * *

Clarke staggers through a couple of hours in the infirmary, working as her mother’s assistant, before she drops a newly sterilized tray of needles and Abby – in a foul mood since returning from the Commander’s room that she declines to explain – banishes her from the ward to get some rest. But Clarke finds that while she does like the idea of a few hours of shuteye, she doesn’t want to return to her cot in Lexa’s room. Several things could happen, none of them good. She could find Lexa asleep, and find herself watching her sleep for the next three hours just to etch the image of her face, not creased by pain or anger or war, on her mind. Or the Commander could be awake and deride Clarke for her weakness, for her immaturity, for her inability to measure up to whatever her people need. Or they could wind up making out like a couple of hormonal teenagers until someone comes to break them apart, and Clarke thinks this last might be the worst of all. She’s supposed to be distancing herself from those kinds of thoughts, because a hormonal teenager is not what the Sky People need. They need a leader.

So she winds up wandering through the halls of Mount Weather, embracing the found, giving direction and assisting with small things where she can. But she’s careful to never let herself get too involved in any one thing – she’s too restless, and too conscious of the tug of so many more obligations. _Is this what it is to be a leader, Lexa?_ she wonders as she helps Monty take inventory of one of the Mountain’s labs. _To always be doing and never see anything get done?_ If so, it’s infuriating.

Eventually she makes her way to the main hall again for an evening meal, and after getting her food she goes and sits with Bellamy and Octavia and immediately sets to work pretending that she isn't keeping an eye out for Lexa. In any event she doesn’t see the Commander. Either Lexa’s decided she’s too good for dinner or she’s sleeping through it, but she’s not there. She notices Ryder filling up a second tray with things he doesn’t eat and carrying it out of the hall with him when he goes, but Clarke would bet Lexa’s not going to eat it anyway. She has a tendency to completely forget about food when there’s work to be done, or pick it apart instead of putting it in her mouth. Not that Clarke’s noticed or anything.

Night is close. The sounds of hammers and saws and massive amounts of wood being cut and carried and stacked in intricate patterns have carried through the blasted-open door of the Mountain all day, preparations for the funeral rites of those Clans – like Lexa’s – which burn their dead. As night comes on Clarke finds herself drifting closer and closer to the door, watching the sun burn itself out over the mountains across from this one. She lets her mind drift through the forest, across a river and several streams and into a long, deep valley where a wide, shallow river runs. It’s full of fish on rainy days and when it’s hot out you can wade your way almost fully across it, as long as you don’t mind sharp stones. There’s a village nestled in the crook of its bent elbow, and smoke rises from chimneys, drifting across the valley towards her…

“It’s time,” Lexa says from beside her, making her jump in a way that Clarke is almost certain was on purpose, though the Commander gives no sign. Clarke isn’t sure how she manages to be almost completely soundless in full battle dress, but she is. She’s redone her warpaint and it’s darker than usual, making her eyes stand out light in the black hollows of their sockets. She looks somber and ferocious all at once. Clarke can see the set of exhaustion in her face, but it disappears as Lexa squares her shoulders, firms her jaw, and becomes Heda.

They head out to the battlefield and around the curve of the hill where the door was, to where the funeral pyres have been laid. Torches are embedded in the ground along the path to guide them in the dark; while Clarke can hardly see beyond their light she can feel the press of people just beyond them, utterly silent except for the shuffle of feet, the movement of air, the weight of eyes following her and the Commander as they make their way side by side to the cliff. She has a very brief sudden urge to press herself to Lexa’s side and hide her face in the Commander’s shoulder, and chuckles to herself darkly at the idea of that. As if Lexa would ever allow such a thing. _It would be weakness_ , she can hear Lexa saying. _You cannot let your people see that you even_ have _such thoughts._

So she sets her jaw to Lexa’s example and follows her to the platforms where the clan leaders will ignite the fires that will send their dead into the afterlife. Four clans besides Lexa’s burn their dead; the rest have other rituals and are presumably observing them right now. The people of the Ark have also chosen to burn those they lost, though that’s not typically their way; but there are a distinct lack of airlocks to float them from, and their custom on the ground, to bury their dead, would last them through the night and well into the next day, even if they forwent the usual rites. So after a hasty conference with her mother and Kane, they’ve decided to have Abby light the pyre. While Clarke may be the leader recognized by the Grounders, Abby is still the Chancellor and it is the Chancellor’s duty to give her people their last rites.

The other clan leaders take their positions beside their clans’ respective pyres. Their generals stand beside them, holding torches that they’ll soon thrust into the oil-soaked wood. Indra stands by Lexa’s platform, waiting with a burning brand. Clarke makes to move back into the crowd, but Lexa snatches at her hand. “Stay.” The word is quiet, almost a whisper, and the hand that holds hers very loosely is shaking. Lexa won’t look at her, doesn’t say anything else, but Clarke can guess: she’s not doing well. She’s exhausted and her wound is paining her and she doesn’t want anyone else to know, but she’s letting Clarke in on it so that she's aware and can be ready to catch her if she falls. Clarke nods, once, and steps to the other side of the platform, opposite Indra, who looks at her quizzically but says nothing. She turns to face the crowd as Lexa steps up onto the platform, but makes sure she keeps the Commander in the corner of her eye.

“ _Tonight_ _we_ _honor_ _the_ _victorious_ _dead_ ,” Lexa says in Trigedasleng, and to her relief her voice carries clear and calm across the silent assembly. “ _We_ _mourn_ _our_ _lost_ _brothers_ _and_ _sisters_ , _our_ houmon, _our_ yongon. _We_ _mourn_ _those_ _who_ _came_ _before_ _and_ _perished_ _under_ _the_ _ground_. _We_ _burn_ _our_ _dead_ _in_ _memory_ _of_ _those_ _we_ _did_ _not_ _get_ _to_ _say_ _goodbye_ _to_. _But_ _the dead_ _are_ _gone_ ; _we_ _are_ _alive_ , _and_ _the_ _duty_ _of_ _the_ _living_ _is_ _to_ _live_. _So_ –” she takes the torch from Indra, considers it for a moment, and then turns to thrust it through the oil-soaked wood, into the stack of kindling beneath. As she does she feels the ground and the sky attempting to reverse themselves, and fear flashes through her. This _cannot_ happen now, not with nearly half of her people watching.

She takes a deep breath, willing her voice to remain steady, her body to remain strong for just a little bit longer. The world is swimming before her eyes like she's viewing it from across a bonfire, and she forces her gaze to focus as she lights the pyre. “ _For_ _the_ _dead_ ,” Lexa says, “yo gonplei ste odon. _And_ _for_ _the_ _living_ … _yours_ _is_ _too_. _This_ _war_ _is_ _over_.” The pyre bursts into flames.

She turns to step down but the world spins again, and for a moment – just a moment, but that’s all it takes – her vision goes black. When it returns she’s dropping into space. She has just enough time to pray that she doesn't hit the ground – it would be the worst thing, for her people to see their Heda fallen when there is no sword or spear or arrow – and then she’s wrapped in a bear hug, warm strong arms and a scent she recognizes instantly. “It's fine, I've got you, come on,” she hears Clarke murmur, just loudly enough to be heard over the fire’s greedy crackling as it devours the dead. “Lean on me; I'll make it look like we’re walking off together. Come on.”

Somehow Lexa manages to keep herself upright, hand tightly gripping Clarke’s, shoulder braced heavily against hers. She feels Clarke take her weight and marvels at how she could have ever thought her Sky Girl weak – even though she must be in plenty of pain of her own, she’s practically carrying Lexa as they walk out of the firelight and let the Trigedakru surge forward, to feed the fires with keepsakes that they wish to send along with the dead to their next lives. Eager though they are to honor their loved ones, her people stand aside to let them pass.

Lexa is hardly aware of any of this – at this point it's all she can do to cling to consciousness and keep putting one foot in front of the other. The only thing that feels real to her is the hot seeping of pain down her side, like lines of lava slowly carving trails through her skin. Even Clarke’s hand clamped tightly around her own, her body supporting nearly Lexa’s entire weight, has started to feel less than true. She wonders if she might be feverish – she has always had the most intense, vivid fever dreams, and she can't entirely be certain that Clarke’s not one of them. She’s dimly aware that she’s mumbling something under her breath; when her mind catches up with her mouth she realizes it was “Need…down. Need to find…place...away...” At the edges of her perception, she sees Clarke nod, her jaw tight.

An eternity later Clarke is gripping both of her hands and letting her slip to the ground, leaning her up against one of the concrete barricades they’d maneuvered into place for the battle. Lexa lets her head loll against the concrete, appreciating the coolness of it on her skin. After a moment Clarke joins her and they sit side by side. Lexa supposes it could be an accident that Clarke’s shoulder is the perfect height on which to rest her cheek.

Sitting appears to be helping her because her head isn’t spinning so much, and the world isn’t flickering in and out of her vision. She’s able to focus on the night forest, the crackle of flames, on the steady rise and fall of Clarke’s breathing. When she speaks, she doesn’t bother to firm up her voice; it’s cracked and raw, like she feels. “You make me weak, Clarke.”

Clarke freezes at the words, said in a tone that Lexa has never allowed herself before, at least not in her hearing. She’s not sure what to make of them; a hundred meanings race through her head at light speed. She knows that _hodnes laik kwelnes_ for Lexa, that it’s nothing she’s allowed herself because of what happened to Costia and because of who she is, who she needs to be for her people. Does that mean that Lexa loves her? Does Lexa even know _how_ to love anymore, or is it only sacrifice with her? She could go on like this forever, body frozen and mind running at a million miles an hour, but then Lexa speaks again.

“I should probably have you exiled or killed. Your people can stay but you should be dealt with, somehow. It’s entirely irresponsible to let you remain with me. It’ll only end with your death or mine.”

Clarke doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if there’s anything to say to that. She opens her mouth a couple of times to see if anything will fall out, but nothing does, so she keeps staring at the weaving black shadows of the trees, the firelight dancing over them. She listens. She hears Lexa draw in a ragged, shaky breath.

“The truth is, Clarke, you terrify me.”

At this point Clarke wants to ask what’s brought this on, what’s making Lexa talk like this; the words and the tone she’s saying them in are so alien coming from Lexa it’s like she’s speaking a foreign language. She could never have imagined her, Heda, the great Commander, even being able to speak these words. It seems like they should burn up in her mouth before ever being uttered. Except:

 _I do trust you, Clarke_.

Something’s welling up in her, something she hasn’t let herself feel, if she’s being honest, since Finn – since well before he died, before Raven came down, back when she was just a kid with a group of other kids and they were scared and hungry and dirty and _free_. She’d let herself feel that way with him and it had been terrifying then too, just how much it was possible to care for another person. It felt like realizing that the grip of gravity that held you to the earth was optional, and you could go spinning off into space if you just took the leap. But the truly scary part was what she hadn’t realized yet, not then: just how easy it was to lose them. Just how easy it would be to lose Lexa.

She realizes that Lexa is trembling beside her, waiting for her to say something; when first she tries her mouth is dry as a bone, and she has to swallow several times to become able to speak.

“You terrify me too.”

Lexa sighs, a dry rasp. “Then we agree. We’re not good for each other, Clarke. We only make each other weak where we need to be strong. We have no choice.” And yet Lexa hears the lie in her own words – Clarke half-supporting, half-carrying her away from her people, to where she could be weak without anyone seeing. Clarke swiftly and expertly rigging a sling for her broken arm so they can escape the gorilla. Clarke’s hand running softly over hers as she slides into sleep.

“We have a choice,” Clarke says quietly, surprised by how steady her voice is. “We’re already terrified by each other, and that won’t change whether we’re apart or not. So we can either be afraid alone, or we can be afraid together.” Her hand moves to brush Lexa’s, their pinkies touching. For an eternity there’s only the sound of the wind in the trees.

And then Lexa’s hand moves over hers to cover it, and it’s warm – so warm that it tells Clarke she probably has a fever and should be in bed – but for the moment she’s not going anywhere, she’s not going to bully Lexa back into the Mountain and back into her sickroom, not going to hook her up to fluids and order her to sleep. She’s only going to sit here and watch the trees move and appreciate the warmth of Lexa’s hand over hers.

Her voice is so soft Clarke nearly misses it. “Together, then?”

After a beat, Clarke nods. “Together.”

They will be missed soon, searched for, found nearly asleep against the pylon, hypnotized by the movement of the wind in the branches and the movement of the breath through one another’s chests. They will be led to Lexa’s room where Nyko will slide the IV needle, with Clarke’s slurred direction, under Lexa’s skin, will change her bandages while Clarke is using the bathroom and add antibiotics to her IV bag. They will slide into sleep together on separate beds, their gazes locked until their eyes flutter closed, their hands still entwined. They will miss Indra and Abby watching over them, both marveling separately at how young they look, how small and hurt and broken; how burdened, how strong and proud. But for now they simply allow themselves to be still, terror and wonder thrilling through them, warmth in the places where their bodies touch, and for the first time since Clarke fell from the sky they both feel truly alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "The Funeral," Arcade Fire
> 
> Trigedasleng: 
> 
> *means I've made stuff up.
> 
> Ai gaf yun *sisten: I seek your help. Ai is I, gaf is seek, yun is your, and sisten I’ve put together from sis…op, which is the verb form of “help.” It’s been theorized that sis is slurred from assistance, so I figured the noun form could just tack on another syllable of the same.
> 
> Gonasleng: English. Literally “warrior-language,” because Grounder warriors learn English to communicate with their enemies. 
> 
> Em pleni: enough
> 
> Houmon: spouse (gender-neutral)^
> 
> Yongon: child (gender-neutral)^
> 
> Yu gonplei ste odon: your fight is over
> 
> Hodnes laik kwelnes: love is weakness
> 
> ^ A note on pluralization: from what I understand, there isn't a formal requirement for pluralization in Trigedasleng. It's possible to emphasize plurality by adding emo to the end of a word, as when you’re trying to draw attention to the fact that there are unexpected multiples of a thing, but in standard use cases there is no way to denote pluralization that I can find.


	4. Hand over the future (lost boys, lost girls)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who reviewed! It really makes my day to hear from you all. I got pleasantly sidetracked by a tumblr prompt (which should be arriving shortly), but I hope you guys enjoy this one! As always, betaed by the inimitable galpalkru on tumblr, and notes on the Trigedasleng used in the chapter are at the very end. 
> 
> Also, the first person who can tell me two movies that I reference in this chapter gets a cookie (or a free writing prompt, whatever works). Send me an ask on my tumblr, hedakomtrashkru.tumblr.com.

Clarke wakes up out of a very stupid dream in which she’s not only late to an exam on Old Earth history, but she’s forgotten her pants and Lexa is in the back of the room hooking up with Finn and her mother is somehow the teacher and she starts to ream Clarke out when the windows blow out of the Ark and Clarke is sucked into wakefulness. The noise turns out to be Nyko, who is snoring like a gorilla in a chair across from Lexa’s bed – Lexa’s _empty_ bed. Clarke bolts up. “Where’s the Commander?”

 Nyko snorts his way out of sleep and looks so guilty that Clarke softens. “I’m sorry I startled you, Nyko, but she wasn’t doing well last night and she really shouldn’t be out of bed if –”

“Apologies, Skaiheda,” Nyko says. “I did not mean to fall asleep. Abi said that Heda’s sleep was restful enough that she was well enough to assist with the inventory of the Mountain’s spoils, so long as someone was watching to make sure she did not overexert herself. She was informed by her  _kaunta_  that there was a library on the fourth level of the complex. She was very interested in its contents, so she left about an hour ago with Indra.”

Clarke frowns. “A library?” She knows Lexa’s not a savage, but she’s never seen her or any of the Grounders with a book. Maps, charts, and messages, yes, so she knows that at least some of them are literate, but literature doesn’t seem to be much of a priority with them. Maybe, she thinks, Lexa’s discovered something else in the library that she doesn’t want anyone to know about.

"Yes, Skaiheda,” Nyko says. “There’s a stairway down the hall that should take you there, unless there’s anything else you require.”

“Did Lexa send for me?” Clarke says, scrunching up her nose.

“She merely asked that I pass along her whereabouts.”

“Then I think she can wait until I’ve had some breakfast.”

Clarke finds Bellamy and Octavia in the mess hall. Octavia’s teasing Bellamy about his Grounder girl and his look is getting darker and darker, and Clarke can’t help but join in. Or try to, anyway; when she nears the table the two of them shut up abruptly and sit up a little straighter, making the grin drop off her face. She gives them a mock-salute. “At ease, soldiers.”

Bellamy at least has the grace to look abashed. “Sorry, Clarke. It’s just weird hearing the Grounders call you Princess and mean it. I think some of them actually think you’re our princess, you know?”

Octavia snickers. “I know one of them _definitely_ thinks you’re a princess.”

Clarke turns bright red and swats at Octavia, who dodges her easily and cackles louder. She sweeps off to the banquet table with an exaggerated huff, but happiness and worry are at war within her. On the one hand, apparently her friends _can_ be enticed to still act like her friends, not soldiers under the command of the _Heda_ _kom Skaikru_. On the other, it worries her how much they seem to know, or at least suspect, about her relationship with Lexa. They haven’t exactly been quiet about it, but that doesn’t mean the entire Coalition should get to know the details. She’s going to have to figure out some way to shut Octavia up, and then consult with Lexa about exactly if and when they should go public.

Because she knows Lexa’s history, knows what happened to Costia and knows that it would utterly destroy Lexa to go through that again. And then there’s Clarke’s own burning need to not be dead. She doesn’t delude herself: there are plenty of people who are theoretically on her side who would love to see her dead. Much as she doesn’t want to, she forces herself to list them as she chews listlessly on her breakfast (ostensibly eggs, bacon, and toast, but they have the same familiar cardboard flavor of protein powder). Leaders of the other clans, seeking retribution for any number of slights committed by the Sky People. Those seeking to destabilize the Skaikru, or the Coalition, or Lexa herself. Those who, like Quint, had lost someone before the Sky People and the Grounders joined forces. And plenty more, those with motivations she can’t even begin to fathom. _Welcome to Earth_ , she thinks, not for the first time.

God, this should be so much fun.

“Well, better not keep Her Majesty waiting,” Clarke says lightly, rolling her eyes for her friends’ benefit. She stands, grabbing her tray to stow it in the wash pile (one thing she’ll definitely miss from Mount Weather: working dishwashers). Octavia smirks at her.

“Got a hot date or something?”

“Yeah,” Clarke shoots back, “with a library. We’re taking inventory.”

“Ooh, kinky!” Octavia shouts at her retreating back, making Clarke wince. Octavia Blake, ladies and gentlemen, Crown Princess of Subtlety. She’s _definitely_ going to have to figure out something to do about that one, and fast, because if Octavia knows (or thinks she knows) Clarke might as well be getting on the radio every hour and announcing that she’s hooking up with the Grounder Commander.

She gets lost about three times before she finally finds the library. It's near Dante Wallace’s office and the place makes her shudder, but she reminds herself that he’d been killed when they first broke through and continues on. She steps through the door to the library, calling softly, “Lexa?”

“Here,” comes the muffled reply, and Clarke steps around the wall to see Lexa rooting through a shelf packed with books, frowning at their spines. She pulls some off the shelf, inspects them, sets some aside on a table, and flicks the others onto the floor, making Clarke’s eye twitch. The books they’d had on the Ark were treated very well – in fact, it was a crime to destroy a book, as there were very few works that had multiple copies and each one, once gone, was gone forever. Or so they’d thought, when Earth had been nothing but a blue-green concept in the pages of some of those books. Clarke recognizes a few of the ones she’d grown up reading, crisp and fresh as hers had been worn and thumbed-through.

Clarke can’t discern any pattern to Lexa’s sorting, but it’s clear she’s got some kind of system, as she’s carefully considering a trilogy entitled _His Dark Materials_ that Clarke remembers reading in her Philosophy and Religion class. She’s discarded the first one but is frowning at the other two, trying to work something out. After a moment she sighs and sets both of them on the table before turning to Clarke. One of her very rare small, soft smiles reaches her lips as their eyes meet. “Clarke of the Sky People honors me with her presence.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and limps over to the table, pulling out a chair and wincing as it scrapes horribly on the concrete floor. “Clarke of the Sky People needed breakfast. Where’s Indra? And did my mom actually say you could be out of bed?”

Lexa gives her a sharp look. “Is your mother my _warda_?”

“For now, yes. Are you going to answer my question?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Clarke puts on a grandiose voice. “Well, you are the _Heda kom Trikru_ , you could just have me executed instead.”

Lexa turns back to the bookshelf. “Don’t tempt me.”

Clarke stares at her as she works, mildly distracted by the outfit she’s got on: not her usual formalwear or battle armor, but instead a loosely cut tank and a pair of formfitting pants that she’s pretty sure are made of leather or something like it and that she could _definitely_ stand to see Lexa in more often. Then a thought hits her. “Was that teasing? Did we just tease each other?”

“I don’t tease, _Klark_ _kom_ _Skaikru_ ,” Lexa says without turning, completely deadpan. “Humor is forbidden to me as Heda.” She’s gratified to hear a laugh startled out of Clarke, and resolves to make that happen again soon.

"So what are we doing here, anyway?” Clarke asks, settling her chin on her hand as Lexa continues to sort. “Something tells me that the preservation of Old Earth literature isn’t exactly tops on the priority list for the rest of the Coalition.” She sees Lexa wince guiltily and thinks, _Curiouser and curiouser._ Not only has Lexa completely avoided answering any of her questions, but that also appears to be the last thing she wanted Clarke to ask. She listens carefully for the Commander’s next words, on high alert for anything that might suggest she’s lying.

Lexa appears to be warring with herself. She’s chewing her lip, which is something Clarke’s realized she does when she’s trying to make an unpleasant decision. They maintain their silence for a few minutes, broken only by the sound of various consistencies of paper moving against one another. At last Lexa seems to come to a decision, because she turns to face Clarke, setting a stack of books on the table. As Clarke peers at their spines to discern the titles, she notices a large canvas knapsack lying flat and empty on the table beside the books.

“I mean to be honest with you, Clarke, as much as I can,” Lexa says softly, making Clarke’s eyes snap back up to meet hers. “I can see little benefit in lying to one another. And in the interest of honesty, I ask that you let me keep this secret for now. It’s one of my oldest and most closely held; there are perhaps three people who ever knew it, and one of them was Anya.” She pauses, picking at the cover of a novel called _The Winds of Winter_ , by George R. R. Martin. Clarke refrains from telling her to cut it out; when the Ark had taken to the sky, only the first five in the series had been on board and she thinks she might actually murder Lexa if she prevents her from reading it. “I think that I could trust you with this secret one day, but not yet. Can you trust me enough to wait?”

Clarke’s mind is racing with a million questions. Of course Lexa has secrets, and she’s good at keeping them – Clarke’s seen that in action, seen her walk away from a crater of 250 souls and turn that secret into a motivational speech for her army. She’s a warrior but also a head of state, and Clarke knows from her mother and from her own experience as a leader that secrets tend to come with that territory, like leeches in a swamp – they accrue and cling, until one is weighed down with them.

Yet she owes a trust to Lexa – she’d asked the Commander to trust her once in sparing Octavia, and while she hadn’t initially listened she’d called off her assassin in the end. Now Lexa’s asking for her trust in return. The Commander _is_ a politician, expert at playing allegiances against one another, but it’s just the two of them in this room. There are no allegiances that Clarke can see, nothing to gain by keeping her out of the loop. And she does trust Lexa, she realizes. Secretive and closed off the Commander might still be, but Clarke doesn’t think she’d betray her. She nods.

Lexa sighs, looking like a weight has risen off of her shoulders. She turns to survey the rest of the shelf and, apparently satisfied with her work, begins packing the chosen books into the satchel. Clarke bites her tongue over at least five different questions before she’s finished, but when the Commander moves to sling the bag over her back she snorts and yanks it across the table towards herself. “Yeah right. I definitely do not want to explain to my mom how I let you pull a stitch. And where is Indra, anyway? Isn’t she supposed to be babysitting you?”

Lexa scowls. “Yes, she is your mother’s spy of the day. I have to admit it concerns me how easily she’s managed to recruit my people into her service. To answer your question, I sent her on a _runna gon goz.”_ Clarke’s blank look tells Lexa that she doesn’t get the reference. “It’s when you tell someone to fetch something that doesn’t exist to get them out of the way.” Clarke’s eyes brighten.

“Oh! Like when you send them to get the left-handed screwdriver,” she says, and when Lexa frowns she chuckles weakly. “Heh, bad joke. Anyway…”

“ _I_ don’t particularly feel like explaining to your mother why your shoulder needs to be set again,” Lexa says, reaching for the bag. Clarke doesn’t let go and while Lexa’s feeling far better she doesn’t think she’s up to a tug-of-war, so she hastens to say, “One of my guards can carry it.” Clarke nods curtly and Lexa is forcibly reminded, yet again, of her parentage.

They set off down the hall in search of Indra and find her dressing down one of her seconds in a side corridor not far from the library. When she catches sight of Lexa she sighs deeply and says, “Heda, I am fairly certain there is not nor ever was a…whatever you sent me to find, not in this Mountain or any others. As your general, I would counsel you not to send your guards on fools’ errands when there may still be danger in these halls.”

Lexa nods and says gravely, “Thank you, Indra, for your advice; you know how I have always valued your counsel.” Clarke hastily turns her laugh into a cough and turns away to hide her grin.

The Commander speaks swiftly in Trigedasleng, dispatching half of her guards to the library to pack up the remainder of the books she's chosen into wheelbarrows and the other half to go and fetch the wheelbarrows. Indra remains, one eyebrow raised at her Heda’s behavior, but she says nothing. After Lexa’s eyed her for a moment and determined that she’s not going anywhere, she hands the bag of books – carried jointly with Clarke, as neither of them had been willing to concede the point – off to her general. “Take this to my chambers and make sure it stays with the rest of my gear. It doesn’t get left behind, understood?” Indra takes the bag but hesitates, causing Lexa’s eyes to narrow. “Is there a problem, Indra?”

"No, Heda, I just do not wish to leave you without protection in the depths of the Mountain, where so many people have lost their lives and where danger may yet remain.”

“I do not fear the dead,” Lexa drawls, “and as for the living, I think between the two of us Clarke and I make up at least one capable warrior in spite of our injuries. I am not worried.”

Indra nods and ducks her head, not taking the Commander’s bait. “Very well, Heda. I will do as you say. I just ask that you remain aware of your position – in all respects.”

As Indra walks away Lexa’s face stiffens and she clenches her jaw. Clarke glances at her nervously. “What was that all about?”

Lexa sighs, deflating. “That was the price I pay for a moment to myself: one of my most trusted generals reminding me of my duty to my people, and that my life is not my own.” She’s staring at the ground, wearing a small smile that bears more resemblance to a grimace than a grin and looking impossibly small and worn. After a moment’s hesitation Clarke reaches for her hand.

“Let’s go back then. Wouldn’t want to get you in any more trouble.”

Lexa snorts but doesn’t demur, and she doesn’t take her hand back. “No, we wouldn’t. Besides, they’ll be looking for us. The sentencing will take place soon.”

Clarke bites her lip and wonders very briefly if she could bow out of this one. It’s not a serious question – she knows she can’t, that it would look very bad if the architect of the plan wasn’t present at its execution – but it’s been sitting like a stone at the pit of her stomach ever since she proposed it.

“What about the Mountain kids? And the ones who helped the 47? What are we going to do about them?”

Lexa studies a spray of lichen growing from a bullet hole in the wall. “I spoke with your mother about that yesterday.” Clarke glances at her warily. When Lexa won’t even look at her she knows to be worried. What the Commander says next surprises the hell out of her, though.

“Abby Griffin was right about…well, nearly everything she said. I have considered her request and I agree – those who had no part in the Mountain Men’s crimes should not have to pay for them. I have agreed to let them return with your mother to Camp Jaha to see what might be done for them, while I continue on to Tondc.”

To Lexa’s complete shock, Clarke reaches up with her good arm and presses a soft kiss to her lips. “You made the right choice.”

“You make a convincing argument,” Lexa murmurs, leaning in for another, but Clarke pulls away, grinning.

“Don’t get greedy.”

Lexa looks grumpy as Clarke turns away and starts to head back up the corridor towards the lift. Before she can get far, though, her hand is tugged back and she’s staring into Lexa’s eyes, wide and somehow vulnerable though her face is impassive and her voice carefully neutral. “Where will you go, after? What will you do?”

Clarke stares at her, realizing that she’s been focused so closely on recovering and making it through the day and preparing her people to leave this hellhole that she hasn't even considered it. “I don’t know.”

Lexa’s looking at her curiously. “Well, what do you want?”

Again, not something she’s considered. For the longest time all she’s wanted has been her friends back – there hasn’t seemed to be room for anything else. She can’t imagine that she and Lexa are particularly different in that regard. Selfishness seems like a foreign country at this point and she’s standing on a far mountaintop, only just barely able to make out its border. There’s a vast sea of duty between here and there, one that she knows she can’t help but wade through, but she thinks that at its outer edge she might possibly know who she sees, waiting.

“You.”

This time Clarke doesn’t offer the kiss; Lexa takes it.

* * *

Lexa’s estimation is, unfortunately, proven right; there’s very little time between when Indra leaves them and when Ryder comes looking for them, face like a thundercloud. If he notices his Commander and the Skaiheda springing apart like a pair of startled cats as he rounds the corner he gives no sign, only inclines his head. “My apologies for disturbing you, Heda, but one of the _Maunon_ is requesting a _hodwor_ with you. He says he has important information and is prepared to part with it, for a price. We think it’s merely _skrish_ from a desperate man, but he has been quite insistent.”

Lexa knows it’s a mark of just how much Ryder’s patience has been tried that he’s letting Trigedasleng slip into his words in front of Clarke. She’s been firm in insisting that her warriors use the language only sparingly in front of the Skaikru, lest their allies think they’re insulting or keeping secrets from them in the open. The more they hold that suspicion, the more emphatically they’ll try to learn the language. Lexa wants to retain that advantage as long as she can.

Lexa sighs. “And which one is it who wishes so desperately to speak with me that he hastens his death by a couple of hours?”

Ryder doesn’t bother to contain his grimace. “The little white rat, Cage Wallace.”

Lexa’s face darkens in fury. “I have already told him that he has nothing with which to negotiate and no standing with which to do so. Kill him – just torture him first to make sure he actually has nothing to say.”

Ryder nods and makes to return the way he came when a command rings out: “ _Hod op!”_ Lexa’s torn between shock and approval to realize that despite not coming from her, Ryder has obeyed.

Clarke turns to Lexa, gripping her arm, voice rushed. “We shouldn’t just ignore him, Lexa. He might be desperate but he might also have something up his sleeve.” A hundred scenarios are racing through her head. Cage could have a bomb planted somewhere, a failsafe that his death will engage; or there’s a Mountain Man still loose somewhere that he’s gotten into contact with and is prepared to blow them all to kingdom come.

Lexa snarls, “Let him try. If he does I’ll personally give him the death my people crave.” But she’s already following Ryder through the halls, knowing Clarke’s right, knowing that she can’t put her people in that kind of danger. Before they enter the room she stops him. “Start the evacuation procedures. If the _Maunon_ do have something planned I want to get everyone out that we can.” Ryder nods and steps off, and Lexa and Clarke proceed into the harvest chamber.

The cages are full but not of Trigedakru this time; instead they hold _Maunon_ soldiers, stripped nearly to the skin. Some of them reach out for her as she passes, in supplication or in feeble aggression, but she easily ducks the grasping hands, intent on the trembling white rat she sees huddled on the floor. Grounder warriors move to flank her as soon as she enters the room, and they deal out slaps and curses to the offending soldiers.

Wallace is shielding his head with his arms, his pasty skin riddled with bruises. Two _Trigona_ are keeping him pinned down with spears, and Lexa is gratified to see a couple of archers in the rafters, covering him with half-nocked arrows. But she’s no stranger to the _Maunon_ ’s tricks; they come from nowhere and they rarely miss their mark. Fear suddenly wraps its claws around her heart and squeezes and she turns to Clarke. The Sky Girl crosses her arms as soon as Lexa opens her mouth. “Oh, hell no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I could have one of them carry you,” Lexa points out, and Clarke blanches.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

In any other situation Lexa would enjoy proving her wrong, but this is too tense. Still, she’ll take a lesson from Cage: always have a backup plan. She spies one of her most trusted and obedient warriors, Gerron, standing guard by one of the cages, and steps close to him. “ _If the Mountain Man’s claims are true and we are in some kind of danger, I want you to take the Sky Leader and run, and not stop running until you’re a mile away from the Mountain or dead. If she tries to stop you, knock her out and keep going,_ ” she says in hushed Trigedasleng.

“ _But Heda, you are my first priority_ ,” he says, and Lexa rolls her eyes.

“ _You and every other warrior in this room. I am giving you this task because I know I can trust you. Don’t let our alliance fail.”_

 _"Sha, Heda_ ,” he says sadly, and Lexa nods at him before advancing on Cage, who’s now sitting up and glaring at her with one good eye, the other a bloody slit.

“You have sixty seconds to convince me not to tie you to a tree and let my people show you just how _savage_ they really are, Cage of the _Maunon_ ,” Lexa says, in a tone of voice that sends shivers down Clarke’s spine. Cage struggles to his feet and spits blood at Lexa’s. She considers it with the blank, impassive stare that, Clarke has come to know, means someone’s going to die messily very soon. But instead of drawing the knife that hangs at her belt, Lexa tilts her head. “You now have thirty seconds.”

If it was possible to turn any paler, Cage would. He staggers slightly closer, making the warriors covering him raise their spears, but Lexa holds up her hand and they let him come forward. He gets close enough that his words, nearly whispered, are audible. “You have no idea what we’re capable of, and now your little whore is going to die.”

Later Lexa will curse herself twenty times for a fool, will curse her wound and the medicine muddling her senses and dulling her judgment. Clarke will tell her to stop beating herself up; she was never in any danger. Cage is as weak as a starving rabbit; she can feel him shaking from where he’s grabbing her, one arm around her throat and the other holding the Commander at bay with the knife he’d grabbed from her belt. It happens so quickly that by the time the Grounder warriors have reacted, he’s already backing towards the door, croaking out curses and warnings to come no closer. Lexa hears the telltale creaking of bows being drawn and barks out, “ _Hod op!_ ” Her men are good shots but she doesn’t want to take the chance that one of them will miss their mark.

Cage doesn’t get far, though; Clarke’s been training in hand-to-hand combat since she was eight, and one of the first things she learned was how to break out of this particular hold. When she’s done with Cage he’s on the ground groaning, his solar plexus and instep jabbed with a hard elbow and foot, his nose broken by the heel of her hand, and his groin booted for good measure. By the time Lexa arrives she’s scooped up the knife and is able to return it to the Commander, who accepts it with a grim look on her face.

“Tell me once and tell me true, Cage Wallace,” she says, “because while you have most certainly sealed your fate you can die quickly or you can die slowly. What is it that you have to tell me?”

"Fuck...you," Cage spits out from a mouth choked with blood. He tries to rise but Lexa kicks him onto his back and presses a boot to his windpipe. When he makes another attempt Lexa presses down more firmly, and he stays put. The Commander looks to Clarke, eyes giving away nothing, but Clarke can read the question in them anyway. Slowly, she nods. Lexa steps down until the gurgling and wheezing stop. Clarke searches for the remorse she supposes she should feel and finds it absent; when Lexa’s gaze returns to her Clarke can meet it with clear eyes.

As Lexa is sheathing her knife, Ryder reappears at the door. Clarke sees his gaze sweep over the scene, taking in the wild-eyed Commander, the wide-eyed Guards, and the slowly spreading pool of blood, but he says nothing except, “Heda, it is done. Nearly everyone has been evacuated from the Mountain and they’re carrying out the last of the spoils now. Within the hour the Mountain will be emptied.”

Lexa nods curtly. “Good. Have the prisoners rounded up and taken to the first level. The innocents first – I want them fitted with radiation suits and the children checked to make sure they’re sealed – and then they’re to be placed under the command of Abby Griffin of the Skaikru. Then bind the rest together and bring them up too. Do you hear, Ryder?”

“I hear you, Heda.”

“Good. Clarke, come with me. We need to prepare for the sentencing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "We Are the Kids," Walk the Moon
> 
> Trigedasleng: 
> 
> * means I made stuff up.
> 
> Jomp em op en ai frag yu op: Attack her^ and I kill you
> 
> *Counta: steward, slurred from accountant
> 
> *warda: jailer, keeper. Slurred from warden.
> 
> *runna gon goz: expression approximating “wild goose chase.”
> 
> Maunon: Mountain Men
> 
> *hodwor: parley, ceasefire. Literally “stopwar”
> 
> Skrish: shit
> 
> Hod op: Wait
> 
> Trigona: Grounder warriors
> 
> Sha: Yes
> 
> ^Em as a pronoun is gender-neutral. The gender of the subject is to be discerned in context.


	5. Pillars of salt, pillars of sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! This chapter did not, unfortunately, have the beta skills of the magnificent galpalkru, who is currently struggling to graduate college with a modicum of sanity, so any mistakes are mine. 
> 
> As always, see the end of the chapter for notes on the Trigedasleng. And: your reviews give me life! Like Frankenstein's monster.

They begin to make their way upwards with Ryder, heading towards Lexa’s chamber so she can prepare herself for the sentencing. As they do, they’re met by Indra, who reports on the progress of the evacuation.

Three teams have been canvassing the Mountain and its surroundings since dawn, the general informs them as they climb the first stairway. At every tunnel, hole, and suspicious-looking rabbit warren they found, they embedded a blasting cap with a transmitter that syncs them with a detonator, courtesy of Raven. Clarke is surprised and gratified to hear Indra speak with such respect of the ingenuity of the mechanic, though Lexa takes this in stride.

At the second staircase Ryder tells them about the final phase of the evacuation procedures. Nearly everyone is out – the Grounder and Skaikru wounded, followed by the warriors, and then the adult Maunon who are to be spared, in their radiation suits. The Maunon children are currently being fitted for suits and checked carefully by Abby Griffin; their survival, Lexa has ordered, is of the utmost importance, and thus the process is taking a while. Ryder looks darkly impatient and makes remarks to suggest that perhaps his Heda should order more haste, but Lexa ignores him, focusing instead on not panting as she marches up the steps.

By the third staircase Ryder is trying to tell them about the disposition of the remaining Mountain Men, those who will be doomed to stay in the Mountain as it’s sealed. Lexa and Clarke are both feeling their wounds and their exhaustion acutely and are leaning on one another openly, no longer caring about what impression they’re making but simply trying to stay upright. Clarke can see concern etched in the lines of Indra’s face but she makes no move to help Lexa; Ryder simply declines to look at them, and talks over the harsh pants coming from both of them. “We’ll get you some painkillers when we get to your room,” Clarke murmurs in Lexa’s ear. “Non-drowsy; just enough to keep you on your feet.” Lexa nods, feeling the trickling burn down her side sapping her strength; she thinks that if not for Clarke and Abby Griffin, her spirit might be searching for a new bearer. For the first time since Costia died, she thinks she might be glad that it isn't.

The fourth staircase nearly stymies them. Clarke is feeling ragged enough herself now that when Lexa pauses to lean heavily against the wall, she doesn’t try to urge her on, but joins her. Her legs feel like jelly and her arm and shoulder throb. She’s beginning to think longingly of those painkillers herself. Indra and Ryder wait on the steps above them, conversing in low tones and carefully not looking at them. But finally Lexa pushes herself off the wall, a snarl on her face. “We have broken the jaws of Mount Weather and released our people from within. We are _not_ going to be defeated by a flight of steps!”

“Wonderful,” Clarke gasps as they struggle upwards. “Really inspiring.”

“I was under duress,” Lexa growls beside her. “You can’t expect my best work under this much pressure.” Clarke manages to huff out something that approximates a laugh.

Somehow – probably through a combination of stubbornness and luck – they manage to make it to the room they’ve been sharing. Clarke wants very badly to collapse but there’s no time; instead, she ransacks the cart by Lexa’s bed for the most powerful painkillers she can find that won’t incapacitate them. She counts out a dosage for herself and for Lexa and throws them back; after a moment’s hesitation, studying the pills in her palm, Lexa follows suit. Clarke looks at her curiously. “I'll be honest, I expected you to put up a lot more of a fight over that.”

Lexa sighs. “My people have our own ways of dealing with pain, but none of the components are at hand and I find myself not particularly eager to collapse in front of my army again. So while I’d prefer not to be indebted to Skaikru shortcuts, I’m not above practicalities.” They turn to the task of getting ready with sinking hearts. With Lexa’s right side and Clarke’s left arm out of commission, this is going to be difficult; but, as Lexa had joked to Indra earlier ( _Lexa had joked._ Clarke had honestly never thought she’d see the day), between the two of them they might make up one fully able person.

Lexa appears to have been having the same idea, because after a minute of rustling she excavates Clarke’s battle gear from the pile of filthy things it’s been lying under on the floor. When one of the Grounders, tasked with packing up Lexa’s gear, had asked if she wanted her clothing packed up as well, Clarke had responded sharply that he could feel free to burn it, encrusted as it was with mud and blood – but he should leave the armor. It’s filthy too, but except for a few scratches and scuffs and one gash where a bullet had passed far too close to her skin, it had kept her safe throughout the battle. And after all, technically, it’s Lexa’s.

Lexa, who is stepping up behind her, so close that Clarke can feel her breath stirring the hair at the back of her neck, tied up in a messy bun so it doesn't get in her face. The heat she feels from the body behind her makes her shiver and shut her eyes for a moment, but she doesn’t move. “Hold out your arm,” Lexa says in a low tone that makes her shudder again.

“Kinda can’t,” Clarke says, and is annoyed at the breathlessness of her voice. “Broken, remember?”

“The other one,” Lexa says, a hint of impatience in her tone.

“Oh. Right.”

Slowly, and with a lot of wincing, they manage to get the reinforced coat up and over Clarke’s shoulders. She understands now why Lexa is so insistent on wearing her armor nearly everywhere, even if there isn’t any chance of a battle: it makes her feel stronger, more powerful, more like the leader she’s supposed to be instead of the scared, injured teenager she’s afraid she really is. _What’s_ _the_ _truth_ _to_ “ _Fake it till you make it?”_ she wonders, not for the first time. _Can that actually work for a leader? How many of us are just faking it and praying that nobody finds out?_

“You think so loud you’ll wake the dead of Mount Weather, Clarke,” Lexa murmurs in her ear again, reaching around her waist to fasten the coat’s clasps and isn’t that _close enough?_

Clarke spins in her arms, pushes against her chest. “I know what you’re doing.”

Lexa steps back, hands raised, innocence etched onto her face. “I _thought_ I was helping you dress.”

“I’m sure,” Clarke says, but there’s no bite in her tone. A moment later she finds herself regretting pushing Lexa away, mostly because trying to do the coat’s fastenings one-handed is epically difficult. But she’ll be damned before she asks for help.

Then it’s Lexa’s turn. Clarke helps her shrug into her insanely heavy overcoat – seriously, how does she walk in this thing? It’s reinforced with a metal mesh and feels like it weighs fifty pounds, but she’s always running around and climbing things and fighting wars in it like it’s nothing. She’s strongly tempted to let her hands ever so innocently brush various places, but she refrains because _she_ has self-control. Then she’s lifting Lexa’s pauldron into place, running the buckle under her arm and –

A short, startled noise, and Lexa jumps sideways so she’s out of the reach of Clarke’s fingers. When Clarke looks at her, her eyes are wide.

“Was that – are you _ticklish?_ ”

“ _No_ ,” Lexa snaps, yanking the remaining straps through their buckles harshly. The Sky Girl already has far more leverage over her than she should; she does _not_ need something like this.

“Oh my god, you _are!_ This is perfect,” Clarke says, grinning evilly. “You’re lucky I don’t have time to exploit this but your days are numbered, O Great Commander.”

Lexa stares at her, exasperated and thrumming with too many competing emotions to know how to feel. This is far too ridiculous. She shakes her head and moves over to the bedside table, where her attendants have prepared a small bowl of warpaint for her. She wishes she had her mirror, wanting it to be exactly perfect, but she’s done it so many times she knows she could do it in her sleep.

As she’s drawing the lines of war over her face she hears Clarke rustling around, searching through the piles of discarded clothing and dirty linens and whatever flotsam of healing remains. Lexa breathes a silent sigh of relief that Clarke appears to have let the tickling idea go for the moment, and focuses on applying the paint. When Clarke speaks again her voice is muffled by the furniture.

“How come when we were struggling our way up those stairs Indra and Ryder didn’t help us? They didn’t even look at us. It was like they were embarrassed or something.”

“Politeness,” Lexa says out of the corner of her mouth, so she doesn’t ruin her progress. “They were doing us the courtesy of allowing us to fight our own battle. It would be an insult to assume that we couldn’t manage the stairs, though of course if we had been in any imminent danger they would have stepped in. But among my people weakness is embarrassing, so they were respecting us by ignoring it until we’d overcome it.”

“Speaking of which,” Clarke says, and now it’s her turn to make Lexa tremble with just how close she is, and how soft her fingers feel against Lexa’s cheek as she gently holds her face in her hands. She turns it back and forth, her eyes roving over Lexa’s skin but not meeting her gaze, and Lexa suddenly understands how deer feel when she has them in the sights of her bow and they understand that there is no escape. Clarke’s thumb brushes across her cheekbone and she closes her eyes, swallows, sucks in a breath.

“What are you…”

“You had a smudge just there,” Clarke says, showing Lexa her darkened thumb. “But you’re perfect now.” She leans up and the only think Lexa can do is give herself to it, let herself fall into the kiss like she’s falling headlong off a cliff and there’s nothing she can do to stop it, nothing she _wants_ to do. But Clarke doesn’t let it go on for long before she steps away.

“That was what I wanted to talk to you about, actually,” she says, swallowing. “About this…about us… I haven’t reconsidered,” she hurries to say, seeing the sudden widening of Lexa’s eyes and the shuttering of her expression almost immediately after, her look of indifference starting to return. She takes Lexa’s hand, willing the fortress gates to stay open for just a little longer.

“There’s just…so much going on, and so much work we have to do, that I don’t know if we should…be public about this,” she says in a rush. “It’ll just mean so many questions and things to decide and we already have enough of those. So I think we should keep this between us…for now.”

“We’ve kept secrets together before, Clarke,” Lexa says quietly. “I think we can manage another.”

Clarke isn’t quite sure what to make of her words, of her choice to allude to their secret that lead to the deaths of so many of Lexa’s people and her own. But Lexa doesn’t give her long to try to parse her meaning. She moves briskly out of Clarke’s grasp and reaches for her sword, buckling it around her waist. “I was thinking much the same thing, actually,” she says, her tone unconvincingly light. “It will be relatively easy to dismiss the affection we’ve displayed publicly so far as emotions running high, the heat of the moment. There will still be much to do after we have dispensed with Mount Weather – the wounded to see to, our people to bring home, and the future of the world as we know it to be decided – and I doubt that too many questions will be asked if we simply refrain from indulging ourselves within the sight of others.”

Clarke finds herself nodding, even though she knows that this is Lexa’s trap door snapping shut again. For right now it's easier to pretend, as Lexa does, that she doesn't care. But to her surprise, as they make for the door, Lexa pauses with her hand on the knob. “I wouldn’t… I don’t want to rush you into anything you’re not ready for, Clarke.” Her words are low, and Clarke understands what Lexa can’t yet say. “I can wait – I _will_ wait for as long as you need.”

Clarke lays her hand over the gauntleted fist resting on the doorknob. “Thank you,” she says, just as softly. “I won’t keep you waiting for long.”

* * *

After rejoining Indra and Ryder they make their way to the uppermost level of Mount Weather. As they march towards the gate they pass through lines of Mountain Men chained to one another, pressed against the walls by Grounder spears. Some of them are sobbing openly; others spit curses as they pass or simply look blank. One of them sends a gob of bloody phlegm spattering against Lexa’s boot; Lexa doesn’t even pause, just sweeps on by. Clarke hears the sound of a blow and a choked-off cry of pain just afterwards, but she doesn’t turn either.

As they near the end of the tunnel they see a line of children, headed by Abby. She’s checking their radiation suits one by one before letting them through the airlock and out into the world. There’s a lot of wailing and some of the children have to be carried out, arms outstretched for parents remaining behind in the dark. Clarke’s heart aches as she realizes that while some of the children will be walking into life on the Ground with their parents, many were the sons and daughters of soldiers and doctors who perpetuated the Mountain Men’s horrors. They’ll be making orphans of these children and, should they live to adulthood, perhaps tomorrow’s enemies. But Clarke knows there is no room in the hearts of Lexa’s people for mercy in this case. And, if she’s being honest with herself, there’s little enough in her own.

After passing through the airlock door and hearing it hiss shut behind them, Clarke and Lexa emerge through the ruin that is the door of Mount Weather. When the Mountain had fallen Lexa had ordered her people to do as much damage as they could to it, and the results are simultaneously impressive and underwhelming. Lexa thinks that, had they had more time, they could have dismantled the door altogether, but there is too much to be done. So with the assistance of the mechanic Raven and the engineer Wick, her people have removed structural supports that, the Skaikru swear, will mean that it too will fall when the detonator goes off.

Raven is waiting for them below the gate, at the point they’ve determined is the closest they can stand and still be safe from the blast. As Clarke approaches, the mechanic limps forward and hands her a detonator. “Big shiny red button,” Raven says, looking and sounding as exhausted as Clarke feels but refuses to show. “Push to start. I've rigged it so the airlock seals behind us but they’ll be able to override it eventually. You'll have three minutes.”

“Thank you,” Clarke says, meaning far more than just the detonator. Raven just nods and limps off to join the rest of the Skaikru where they wait perhaps a hundred feet down the hill for the rest of those who will be leaving Mount Weather to come out.

“The Mountain Men will know what we plan by now, and they’ll try to make a break for it,” Lexa murmurs to her, eyes on the door as the remaining Grounders trickle through one by one. “This had better work or we’ll have a fight on our hands, and maybe we’ll get to see that slaughter you wanted to avoid after all.”

Clarke grimaces as some of the Grounders’ proposed torments return to her mind. “It’ll work.”

“Good. That’s your mother now, and Indra and Ryder. They’re the last. I’ll say what I need to say, and then you push the button. Don’t hesitate, Clarke, no matter what happens. There’s no going back.”

Clarke nods. “I won’t.”

Lexa returns her nod and then turns to face the assembled Trigedakru. She lets her eyes rove over their exhausted, haunted, war-weary faces. Some look disgruntled; she knows Clarke’s plan was not a popular one and it took a lot of political capital on her part to push it through. Luckily, the Clans will part ways here and have nearly three seasons to cool off, but also to create new allegiances based on their opinion of her as Commander. The Ice Nation aren’t well-liked by any of the other Clans, but the more she goes against tradition and against popular opinion, the more people might see them as the lesser of two evils and band against her. She’ll need to be very careful.

“Today,” Lexa says in a clear, carrying voice, “justice will be done. The war is ended; our people are returned safe to us. The Mountain will be sealed and will become a _hazazon_ for one hundred years. The punishment for trespassing upon its grounds will be death.” There is a murmur among her people, but no outrage, and it dies swiftly.

“Today we return to our homes and begin to rebuild our lives.” She turns to Clarke. “ _Heda kom Skaikru_ , do what must be done.”

Clarke nods and moves her thumb towards the button, but after a moment’s hesitation she holds it out to Lexa. “For those we’ve lost,” she says, and Lexa stares at her for a moment until comprehension dawns.

“And for those we’ve found,” the Commander says. She places her hand over Clarke’s and presses their thumbs down together.

The blast feels like it shakes the whole world. Clarke and Lexa struggle to keep their feet as the movement of thousands of tons of cascading stone rocks them forward, but they manage to hold one another steady. When the reverberations are over, Clarke hears screams – some from the Grounders, some from the remaining Maunon. A few attempt to run back towards the ruins of their home, but they’re swiftly caught and hauled back by Grounder guards. One – a teenager, Clarke thinks, the lankiness of his body apparent even through his radiation gear – tries to fight back, but in the process manages to crack the faceplate of his suit. He dies, squirming and clawing at his face on the ground before her. Clarke makes herself watch every second of it. _You did this_ , she tells herself, and hears her mother’s voice.

As though Lexa can hear her thoughts, she says, “This death was not your fault, Clarke. _Em don sad klin.”_

“Wasn’t it?” Clarke says, whirling on Lexa. “Didn’t we make this choice for him when we sentenced his parents to be buried alive?”

“His parents shouldn’t have lived off the blood of my people for generations,” Lexa says, voice as hard as the mountain they just broke. “You gave him the chance to break that cycle and he did not take it. Don’t wash your hands with blood you didn’t spill.”

It isn't that simple, Clarke wants to say, but she can’t get the words out. Lexa knows what she’s going through – she’s been there herself, when she used to take every life lost into herself, and make it one of a thousand, thousand cuts – but there’s only so much one person can bleed. Still, she remembers the hours of sobbing and shaking she’d endured, back when she’d first taken Command, and she wants to spare Clarke that. She wants, stupidly, to draw Clarke into her arms and let her hide her face against her chest – but she knows that the eyes of all are upon them, and she knows that Clarke is stronger than that. Clarke _has_ to be stronger than that.

Abby Griffin steps up behind her daughter. Her face wears a blank, empty look and her voice, when she speaks, is hollow. “It’s done, then. We’re going back to Camp Jaha. Are you coming?” As she finishes her last sentence, her glance turns sharply to Lexa, who stares back at her impassively. She breaks their stare when Clarke doesn’t respond immediately.

“I…I don’t know,” Clarke whispers. Right now she’s just struggling not to break under the weight of it, under the burden of how many lives she’s just snuffed out with the push of a bright red button. “I can’t – I don’t –” She’s not sure she can face Camp Jaha and the reminders it holds of the sky she’d come from, of the place where she’d been a child. She’s not a child anymore and just as she knows she can’t return to the sky, she doesn’t know if she can return to that place.

But Abby is waiting impatiently for an answer, and finally Lexa steps in. “Our paths are the same for some time before we must turn for either Tondc or Camp Jaha,” she says, daring a glance at the elder Griffin. “We’ll be moving slowly with the wounded and the spared from Mount Weather. You’ll have days to make your decision.”

Abby opens her mouth, looking like she wants to demur, but Clarke is gratified to see that Lexa has put on her _I am the Commander_ face, which manages to shut her mother up, at least for the moment. “Fine,” she snaps, beginning to head down the slope towards where the Grounder army is finally beginning its retreat. “I just hope you make the right decision.”

Clarke sighs, feeling the weight of a thousand years settling over her shoulders. She wants badly to turn to Lexa, to lean on her or even just be touching her somewhere, but she can feel eyes on them even now. So she carefully avoids the Commander’s gaze as she tucks the detonator into her pocket, just over her heart. “We should go.”

“Yes. But first I need to say farewell to the other Clan leaders. You’re welcome to travel with me when that’s done.”

Clarke nods, eyes still on the ground. “Thank you.”

Lexa steps away, calling out in Trigedasleng for the leaders of the other Clans, and Clarke turns back one more time to look at the Mountain. The sun is lowering over its ruined, sloping shoulders, glinting off the twisted metal remnants of its radio towers and comm equipment. She knows in the back of her mind that they’ve done a great thing today, something that will be commemorated, if Lexa’s people record history, for generations. Yet Clarke can’t help but be reminded of a story she’d read once in her Philosophy and Religion class, back on the Ark: that of Lot’s wife. It told of how a man and his family were fleeing the destruction of a city condemned by God for its incurable wickedness. Their salvation was assured, if only they could refrain from looking back. Lot’s wife had broken that rule and, as the sun was setting over the city’s dying screams, turned her head to watch the city fall and been transformed into a pillar of salt as a result. Clarke can now understand the story viscerally – she feels like she’s slowly turning to salt herself, and the lightest touch or breath of wind will scatter her to a million pieces.

There is a warm hand on her shoulder, and to Clarke’s surprise it doesn't shatter her. “Come, Clarke of the Sky People,” Lexa says, and Clarke can tell by her voice that she _knows_. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "Viva la Vida," Coldplay
> 
> Trigedasleng:
> 
> * means I've made stuff up
> 
> Maunon: Mountain Men
> 
> *hazazon: forbidden/contaminated place. Slurred from “hazard zone.”
> 
> Em don sad klin: He made his choice (formal, carries weight).


	6. All right (she looks to me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exciting news - galpalkru may be embarking upon some fic adventures of her own! Stay tuned - she's a great writer and rather devastatingly funny. If she decides to post you should definitely give her a read.
> 
> Thanks again to everybody who left comments and kudos - I know I keep saying this, but it really makes my day to read them. Please let me know what you think - characterization is always something I'm concerned about in fanfic, and I want to make sure I'm doing the characters justice. 
> 
> Notes on the Trigedasleng at the end of the chapter.

As they set out, Clarke begins to understand why Lexa had said it was going to take them several days to reach Tondc and Camp Jaha. A small group of people, in good health and traveling light, could probably make the trip in a couple of days. An army, however, weighed down with the injured and the spoils from the Mountain, as well as the oxygen tanks that will be used to keep the Maunon alive until Abby can figure out a cure, moves at a snail’s crawl. Clarke spends the first hour of travel walking up and down the length of the Ark portion of the caravan, checking in on her friends and making sure they aren’t doing _stupid things_ , like attempting to _walk_ beside the wagon where they’re supposed to be riding because their _leg nearly got sliced off two days ago_.

Clarke threatens Octavia with disciplinary action, messy murder (this is laughed at – “Please, Princess, as if you could take _me”_ – and given what she saw of Octavia in the battle, Clarke has to admit she has a point), and forced sedation, but ultimately the only thing that gets through to her is the threat of fetching Indra and making her explain to her superior why her second is being an idiot. “I swear, I don’t understand what it is with Grounders and wounds,” Clarke grouses, and then clamps her mouth shut over what she’s just said. When she can look at Octavia again, the girl’s eyeing her steadily.

“It’s okay, Clarke,” she says. “I was never really one of you anyway.”

“Maybe not on the Ark,” Clarke says fiercely, “but on the ground you _are_. You’ve had my back at every turn, Octavia, and I’m not going to forget that, no matter what.”

Octavia nods tightly and squeezes Clarke’s hand in lieu of saying anything. They continue in silence for a minute, broken only by the wagon’s creaking, and then Octavia mutters, “But seriously, don’t get Indra. My head hurts way too much for another lecture about _even fools knowing when to quit_.”

Clarke smirks. “Well well, looks like we’ve finally found someone you’re afraid of.”

She attempts to task Bellamy with keeping his sister in line, but he only guffaws at her. “Since when have I ever been able to make Octavia do anything she didn’t want to do?” Clarke has to admit he has a point, but suspects that his reluctance is less due to the futility of the task and more to his desire to go looking for some Grounder girl he’d met during his time in Mount Weather, whom, according to Octavia, he hasn’t been able to stop talking about. When Clarke leaves them, she’s still teasing him about her, he’s vigorously denying her claims, and Lincoln is groaning that his head hurts like a _pauna_ sat on it and would both of them please _shof op_.  

She checks in on Jasper, Monty, and Raven, all of whom are riding in the next wagon down the line. Jasper is overjoyed to have his partner in crime back, and Monty seems to be too – though a little bit fuzzy around the edges, as the Mountain Men had not treated him well. Raven is talking quietly with Wick, who’s walking beside the wagon next to her, and occasionally offering him a reluctant smile – one Clarke hasn’t seen from the mechanic in a long time. She decides not to bother them, figuring she can get the story on that later.

And then there’s her mother. When Clarke finds her, Abby is deep in conference with Kane, and they appear to be arguing about something. She tries to approach stealthily, but they look up before she can hear anything and immediately shut their mouths. _Busted_ , Clarke thinks, and pretends to look stern. “What are you two crazy kids up to?” She attempts to keep her tone light, but knows she’s not entirely successful as her mother’s eyes narrow.

“Council business.”

Clarke glares. This again? She didn’t exactly ask for the leadership of a good portion of the human race on Earth, but that doesn’t mean she appreciates being patted on the head and told job well done, you can go back to being a kid again. “No offense, Mom, but what Council? You and Kane? Doesn’t seem like much of a Council to me.”

“We’re discussing how best to reinstate governance, now that the pressing threat has ended,” Kane says in a measured tone, but Abby snaps, “Or would you prefer a dictatorship enforced by your warlord?”

Clarke’s mouth drops open. Kane places a placating hand on Abby’s shoulder and says hastily to Clarke, “She didn’t mean that. But we do need to decide how things are going to run from here on out. We’ll need your input on that, of course, Clarke.”

“Yeah, totally sounds like you were dying for my input just then,” Clarke says, glaring at her mother. “I can really tell you value my advice when you stop talking as soon as I get close and then refuse to tell me anything.”

“Clarke –”

“No, you know what? I’m out. Have fun with your little secret meeting.” She’s striding off as quickly as her still-sore body will allow.

“Clarke, get back here!” she hears her mother shout. “Where are you going?”

“To go hang out with the warlord,” she snarls back over her shoulder, and then puts her head down and keeps moving until she’s reached the Trikru segment of the caravan.

As she passes through the ranks of Grounders, they see her and part before her easily, occasionally with a salute or a word or two murmured in a deferential tone. Clarke is too busy seething to acknowledge them – but mostly at herself. When did it happen that two minutes in her mother’s presence turn her from a leader into a bratty teenager? This can’t continue, she knows, but she can’t see how to stop it. Her mom’s not exactly being reasonable either. They’re going to have to have it out sooner or later, but Clarke feels exhausted at the very thought. So – later.

“I know you’re new to our ways, but I thought it might be common sense that it’s not wise to walk directly into the hindquarters of a horse.” Clarke looks up and realizes that, in her directionless fury, she was about to do just that – Lexa’s white stallion, as a matter of fact. She dodges quickly to walk alongside the horse, expecting to be craning her neck up to look at Lexa, but a moment later the Commander dismounts with a grunt to lead him by Clarke’s side. When Clarke gives her a quizzical look, Lexa hastens to explain, “I would not be showing you the respect due a leader if I were to ride while you walked. Since you have no horse –” Lexa spreads her hands. “We both walk.”

Clarke frowns at her. “But your side –”

"I will be fine. My people take their cues in how to treat you from me, and if I do not observe the proper protocol neither will they.” The side of her mouth quirks up. “The Trigedakru do not do particularly well with _Do as I say, not as I do_. They expect their Commander to lead by example.”

Clarke grudgingly accepts this. And yet, an hour later, Lexa has to admit that she’s not fine. Her breathing has grown labored and nearly every movement is painful, and even the handful of pills that Clarke doses her with don’t seem to have taken much of the edge off. Riding Gona had not been without discomfort – the swaying of hips necessary to move with the horse’s body had been agitating her wound – but at least she had been able to be off her feet. She notices Clarke glancing at her a couple of times with concern as they walk, but merely grits her jaw when Clarke inquires and says, in as clear a voice as she can manage, that she’s fine.

Eventually, however, Clarke refuses to allow her to continue the charade. To her surprise, it only takes a few minutes of hushed arguing before Lexa agrees. “You’ll need to ride too, though,” she says. “I’ll have a horse brought up for you.”

She calls out for Ryder, who’s leading his own horse at a respectful distance behind his Heda. But as Lexa observes the animal quick-stepping and chewing the bit nervously, she thinks that this might not be the best mount for Clarke. She’s proven herself a decent horsewoman when she needs to be, but she’s not at her best and Lexa doesn’t want to see Clarke’s head cracked open on a tree branch when the horse bolts because a leaf flutters. Besides, she’s seen how Clarke’s been eyeing Gona – she might be willing to ride when it’s necessary, but she’s nervous around horses, and Ryder’s will pick up on that nervousness.

“ _Find Gonnar_ ,” she orders him in Trigedasleng. “ _His mare is sweet-tempered and calm. She will carry the_ Heda kom Skaikru _well._ ”

Ryder nods and, released by his Commander’s order, mounts up to do her bidding. Clarke frowns quizzically at Lexa. “Where’s he going?”

“To fetch a horse from one of my men. She’s what we call _bombafre_ – very calm and steady. She’ll do well for you.”

Despite her reassurances, Clarke still winces. “Are you sure? I mean, maybe I could just ride yours for a bit and you could hold the reins and give me some pointers until I get used to it.”

When Lexa doesn’t respond, Clarke turns and sees that the Commander’s gone very still beside her, walking stiffly and not looking at her. She frowns. What could she have possibly said wrong? “If you’re worried about your people seeing you walk while I ride, I mean, they already know you’re Heda, so it’s not like they’re going to think…”

She trails off, seeing Lexa shake her head vigorously. “It can’t be done.”

Clarke’s staring at her, completely confused by now. “But you’re the _Commander_. There’s no way they could think you’re my subordinate. So what –”

“It can’t be done,” Lexa repeats, but to Clarke’s shock she’s _blushing_. “It would mean that…it would only be appropriate for me to do in one situation, and that would be if you were my _houmon_. My…wife.”

“ _Oh_.” Now Clarke’s blushing too. They walk on in silence for a few more minutes, resolutely avoiding looking at one another. Eventually Ryder returns with a small dun mare named Husha, which Lexa says means _whisper_ , and helps Clarke climb into the saddle while the Commander mounts Gona. They’re both grateful for the need to communicate about proper riding technique, as it allows them to turn their thoughts from the awkwardness.

Eventually Clarke’s getting the hang of it, though, even starting to move naturally with the horse’s gait, which Lexa remarks upon approvingly. The smile that Clarke gives her is like the sun breaking through the clouds, and Lexa doesn’t realize that she’s staring until Clarke points it out. She denies it vigorously but looks away immediately, lifting her chin and leveling her gaze along the slow winding length of the caravan. Clarke grins to herself. Turns out that the Commander might be just a bit of a dork.

"It seems safe to assume that your people do not observe the same customs of courtship that mine do,” Lexa says after they’ve ridden in silence for a while.

Clarke snorts. “That’s probably the understatement of the year.”

“Elaborate for me, then. If I were one of your Skaikru, how would I go about courting you?”

It’s Clarke’s turn to blush, but she gets control of herself quickly. “Well, first of all, we don’t call it that. We call it dating.” She sees Lexa nod, absorbing the information. “And it involves one person asking another person if they’re interested in spending time together, either alone or in a group, generally doing some kind of activity together like…watching movies, or eating together, or just being alone and hooking up. _Kissing_ ,” she says quickly, seeing Lexa’s frown. “And potentially other things.” Lexa manages not to blush this time, but Clarke sees her jaw clench.

“After a while, if both parties decide that they like each other and are attracted to each other physically and romantically, they decide to be a couple. Usually that means that they don’t date other people, but not always. Eventually, if they fall in love and manage to stay together long enough, they’ll move into the same living quadrant, get married, apply for a child-rearing permit…” She stops, seeing Lexa staring at her, eyes wide and eyebrows nearly up into her hairline. She can see why Lexa’s confused. The customs that the Sky People have created around mating and dating made perfect sense for the Ark, where nearly everybody would know everybody their entire lives and where the population had to be tightly controlled, but on the ground, where there’s so much space and freedom… Who knows how things will change? Clarke thinks that the one-child policy will be the first to go, and predicts that soon enough her mother’s going to have women eager to have their birth control implants removed lining up outside the medical wing, but beyond that, she can’t see anything. It’s all too new.

Lexa’s chewing on a question, and when it comes out it’s awkward of necessity, because the words are strange on her tongue. “So if I were one of your Sky People, I would ask to…date you?”

Clarke can’t help but giggle at the stilted tone in which Lexa speaks. “Something like that. It’s called asking someone out.”

Lexa draws a breath, preparing herself. “Well then, Clarke of the Sky People, I, Lexa of the Tree Clan, am asking you out. Will you go on a date with me?”

This time Clarke bursts out laughing, but manages to choke out a yes.

* * *

The date has to be postponed, however, because fights have broken out on opposite ends of the caravan as the day tests tired tempers and exhausted bodies, and both Lexa and Clarke are called to mediate the disputes. As soon as they’ve reached resolutions and untangled the resulting snarls in the caravan, there are three more crises to be handled. Lexa spends a good half hour arguing with a Trikru _haula_ who can’t understand why his team and cart are being sent to Camp Jaha with a cargo of oxygen tanks. After explaining that the tanks are for the Maunon until they reach the airlocks at the camp, she has to duck a quick blow from his wife, a squad captain who lost a child to the missile at Tondc. By the time the exchange is over, Lexa is exhausted. The sun is lowering across the trees, it’s nearly dusk, and everyone will be stumbling soon in the dark. Although she’d normally keep them marching for an hour or so more, she can’t imagine that they’ll make much progress, and might in fact do more harm than good. After a particularly vivid vision of a four-cart pileup and the hours of sleep lost detangling the wreckage, Lexa calls a halt and orders her generals to spread the caravan out, making sure that tents are pitched within sight of one another so no one gets lost in the night (or gets away with murder), but not so close that tempers get worse than they already are.

It’s a tight fit nonetheless. The trees are close here and the ground is bad, so they mostly wind up clustered along the road, dropping their packs and spreading out their bedrolls where they stand. Despite her attendants’ protests, Lexa refuses to allow her full war tent to be pitched, instead opting for a much smaller one that just barely fits her bedroll, her saddlebags, and herself. At one point during the process Lexa notices a fight breaking out between one of her people and a Skaikru soldier over a particularly choice patch of dirt, and begins limping her way over to deal with it – but Clarke’s already there, shoving them both apart and ordering them to find a different place. Lexa can only nod at her gratefully and turn away.

As Clarke watches the Commander sweep back up the line of soldiers, she realizes that this will be the first time in several nights that they’ve slept more than a few feet from one another. The thought sends a pang through her, not entirely unexpected – she’d known this would be the way of it ever since they’d decided to keep whatever they were to one another private, and to stay with Lexa tonight would be tantamount to making a public announcement via bullhorn – but it’s absurd how much comfort the feeling of war-roughened fingers tangled with her own can give. And Clarke knows what she’ll see when she closes her eyes tonight. She’s seen their faces and heard their voices since her first kill, and now hundreds more will join the swelling crowd.

But she turns away too, back to where her own people are pitching their tents, and considers her options. Octavia is out of the question – Clarke only hopes that she and Lincoln can manage to be at least a little bit quiet – and Raven appears to be spoken for too, if the sight of Wick’s unruly blonde mop disappearing into her tent is anything to go by. Bellamy is nowhere to be seen – Clarke wonders if he’s found his Grounder girl – and as she wanders through the camp, stepping carefully over limbs and packs under the guise of helping others pitch tents and make shelters, she finds herself rubbing her arms and shivering. It’s still summer, as much as she can tell these things, but it’s close to the end, and the nights are cold.

"Clarke!" Her head whips around at the sound of her mother’s voice. She’s pitched a small tent near the front of the Ark section of the caravan, and she’s beckoning her daughter towards her, holding the flap open. Clarke nods, all of a sudden too tired to attempt anything like asserting her independence. There’s still a part of her, beaten and bloodied though it may be, that just wants her mom. Mercifully, Abby appears too tired to interrogate or accost her. She crawls in just after Clarke and they both climb into their sleeping bags, dropping quickly into uneasy sleep.

* * *

Lexa’s only just managed an hour of tossing and turning when she hears the scream. Before she’s fully awake she’s on her feet, throwing back the tent flap, sword drawn, her mind humming with scenarios as she stalks towards the noise. It’s certainly not the only such sound – the caravan is full of the wounded, after all – but she recognizes it, knows who made it, and knows that there are far too many people in this camp who have much to gain by killing its maker.

A few bodies make sleepily to rise as she passes, but Lexa brushes by them quickly, intent on her destination. Before long, she hears the shriek again, and she bursts into a full sprint, leaping over heads and packs indiscriminately, the metal of her sword flashing in the lantern light as she bursts into the tent. She’s prepared for an assassin, a fight to the death in close quarters – she’s not ready to see Clarke thrashing in the grip of a nightmare, tears spilling out from under eyelids squeezed tight. As Lexa watches helplessly, she opens her mouth and screams again.

Lexa doesn’t think, just moves. She sheathes her sword and, heedless of Abby’s sleepy grumble, kneels beside Clarke, gripping her shoulders. She knows that she needs to do this gently – waking her up sharply may only make matters worse, traumatizing her wide-eyed and shaking for the rest of the night. She’s been here before, but there’s been no one to calm or gentle her for a long time – not since Anya when she was very young, and then it had been, far too briefly, Costia. The memory makes Lexa swallow hard, but she does her best to imitate their gentle demeanors, the way they had spoken and the way they had touched. “Clarke,” she whispers, close to the girl’s ear so she doesn’t make too much noise, doesn’t wake her mother. She runs her hands along Clarke’s upper arms, feeling how chilled the skin is. “It’s all right, I’ve got you, you’re safe.” The words feel alien coming from her mouth – she’s the Commander, a warrior, a leader, not a comforter or a healer, as Costia had been. And yet – is Clarke not both? She finds herself stymied for a moment, staring down at the Sky Girl, considering the question.

After a moment Clarke stirs again, shifts herself closer with a sleepy mumble of “Lexa?” Lexa nods, not quite trusting herself to speak, but Clarke’s eyes are opening a little wider, confused.

“You were having a nightmare,” Lexa explains, as quietly and as calmly as she can, and sees Clarke’s eyes widen further, the ghosts of what she’d been dreaming of chasing one another across their reddened blue. She can feel the girl beginning to shiver again, and moves closer, hoping to lend some of her own warmth. “Shh, you’re safe, it’s all right,” she says again, and then, after a moment of hesitation, shifts still closer, until Clarke’s nearly in her lap. At first the Sky Girl turns still as stone and Lexa’s about to move away, but suddenly Clarke turns to cling to her, hands fisting themselves in her shirt.

“Stay,” she says, her voice so cracked and broken from screaming that it makes Lexa’s heart ache. “Please?” Lexa can only nod.

She shifts again so that she’s lying alongside Clarke, and after a moment of hesitation pulls the Sky Girl into her arms. She can feel Clarke tense at the sudden movement but then, after a moment, she relaxes into Lexa’s embrace. “Stay,” she murmurs again, sleep beginning to overtake her once more, and Lexa buries her nose in Clarke’s hair and breathes.

“As long as you need, Skaion,” she murmurs. She imagines that she’ll keep watch over Clarke until she can be sure that the nightmares won’t come again, and then she’ll find something to keep herself occupied with – sleep hasn’t come easily to her in a while, and once disturbed it tends to stay gone. But despite her intent, exhaustion and comfort and the warmth of Clarke send her drifting off soon too.

* * *

Clarke’s awakened by a sudden blast of sun from the tent flap being opened. With it comes the sound of horses and people moving about, the smell of breakfast being cooked, the noises of the army beginning to wake. The opening in the flap also brings with it a gust of cool air, in sharp contrast to the warmth at her back. Clarke’s sleep-muddled mind clears quickly. Last night…she’d been having miserable nightmares, tied to a post as her dead cut her slowly to shreds, ceaselessly chanting _Jus drein jus daun_. And then Lexa had burst into the tent, sword drawn, looking for something to kill, and had instead held Clarke and murmured comforting things to her as she drifted back to sleep. She doesn’t remember Lexa leaving – which probably explains the warmth behind her, and the look her mother is currently leveling at her. Oh, _this_ is going to be fun.

She digs an elbow into the body at her back and is rewarded with a sleepy mutter, and a soft press of lips against the back of her neck that makes her shiver and then blush crimson. Her mother’s eyes narrow. Of course Lexa’s picking today not to wake up like usual, striding around and issuing orders before Clarke’s even had the chance to open her eyes fully. No, today she wants to _cuddle_. That’s not happening.

Clarke elbows her again, harder this time, and hisses, “ _Lexa!_ ” under her breath. Her mother’s still regarding them without saying a word, but she doesn’t have to: Clarke’s pretty sure Lexa won’t be alive for the five more minutes she’s currently demanding. “ _Get up._ My mom’s here.”

“It’s time for breakfast,” Abby finally says, crisp as the first cold snap. Lexa’s head jerks up, her cheeks already blooming crimson. She scrambles to her feet, jaw tight and chin up.

“My apologies, Abby Griffin of the Sky People,” she says, absurdly formal. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Clarke’s eyes roll so hard she’s worried they might not return to their original positions. “I meant only to try to comfort Clarke in her duress. I did not mean to be here this morning.” Clarke sucks in a breath.

After a tense moment, Abby nods curtly. “Don’t let it happen again.” She leaves the tent and Clarke lets out the breath she’s been holding in a rush.

“That could’ve gone worse.”

“ _Much_ worse,” Lexa says, running a hand through her sleep-tangled hair. “The first time Costia’s parents caught me, her mother chased me half a mile through the woods with a hot iron she’d been using to brand pigs. I still have the scar.”

“Where?” Clarke says curiously, and Lexa’s jaw tightens.

“Nowhere you'd have seen.”

“Oh.” Clarke’s eyes go wide as she understands. “ _Oh.”_

“They came to like me well enough, once they knew me,” Lexa says, wincing at the memory, and she fully intends to go on until she realizes all at once that this is the first time in three years that she’s spoken of Costia without sickening, marrow-deep pain, without the wooden tone that usually hides it. Her mouth clamps shut and she stares at Clarke until the girl frowns at her.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Lexa chokes out, and makes for the tent flap, almost forgetting her sword and nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste to make her exit. Clarke manages to grab her wrist before she’s escaped.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Lexa knows who Clarke’s referring to, but her throat has closed and all she can do is turn her head away. She can’t look at Clarke. She feels as though she’s being laid open to the bone. She pulls her wrist out of Clarke’s grasp, but doesn’t leave right away, torn between the pain of the past and her guilt at the hurt she hears in Clarke’s voice.

“I’m sorry.”

Lexa turns to regard her, and now it’s her eyes that hold the ghosts. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she says, brushing her thumb across Clarke’s cheekbone. “The dead are gone.”

“And the living are hungry,” Clarke sighs, and begins shrugging into her jacket. “We should get out there before someone starts a riot.”

"It may be too late for that,” Lexa says, as the sounds of shouting echo across the camp. “However, if we move quickly enough we may be able to preserve our alliance a little longer, at least long enough to break camp.”

Clarke snorts, runs a hand through her tangled curls, and pulls back the tent flap. “Maybe we can even get breakfast.”

“Better hurry, then. I think I hear them tipping over the cookpots.”

Clarke curses, sighs, turns to go. “Let's go be leaders.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "She Looks to Me," Red Hot Chili Peppers
> 
> Trigedasleng:
> 
> *means I’ve made stuff up
> 
> pauna: gorilla
> 
> shof op: be quiet
> 
> *bombafre: steady and difficult to rattle. Slurred from “bombproof,” which is a term I picked up in my horseback riding days for horses that were very even-tempered and difficult to startle, making them generally good for beginners. 
> 
> *Haula: carter. Slurred from “hauler.” 
> 
> Jus drein jus daun: Blood must have blood.


	7. This is my breath in your lungs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everybody who read and commented! Galpalkru's fabulous beta services are back, even though she's currently engaged in her own project - everybody should go over there and check out Check Yes Juliet because it's a really awesome HSAU and I've read the next couple of chapters - it only gets better from here. 
> 
> As for this one...gets a little steamier this time around ;) 
> 
> No Trigedasleng this time - everything's either defined in the text or common enough that I figured it didn't need definition. Let me know if I'm wrong!

Despite their decision to keep things between them quiet, Clarke finds herself spending a fair amount of time with Lexa as they continue on their wincingly slow way to Camp Jaha and Tondc. Lexa’s still Heda, of course, and Heda has her dignity and oh so, so much pride – but Heda is also Lexa, and Clarke has begun to distinguish the two in her mind. While the Commander is, as always, stoic and formal and wise beyond her years, Lexa has a sarcastic streak a mile wide, a secret deep-seated love for dorky jokes, and is in many ways achingly nineteen.

Clarke only manages to pry Lexa’s age out of her under extreme duress. Initially she launches into some long-winded monologue of how age doesn’t really apply in her case as she’s still the same soul reincarnated across generations, but when Clarke’s eyes begin to glaze she digs her fingers into the armhole of the Commander’s armor and tickles. Lexa yelps, jumps, and puts herself a good five paces out of Clarke’s reach before either of them realizes what just happened. After Clarke’s done laughing, she promises Lexa that there’s more where that came from if she doesn’t just give Clarke a damn number. Lexa glances around, counts all of the curious eyes on them, and sighingly owns up to nineteen summers – that’s how her people reckon it, counting the seasons from the one in which you were born. Clarke finds that fascinating, as there hadn’t been seasons on the Ark – they’d kept track of months, and celebrated several Old Earth holidays centered around the time of year, but it hadn’t really mattered – one day was the same as the next.

Upon hearing this, Lexa is amazed. The seasons are so much a part of life on the ground that she cannot imagine never experiencing them, and she makes Clarke carefully describe the climate control on the Ark, the constant temperature of 70 degrees and how it had only begun to waver in the last days of their time in space. Before coming to Earth, Clarke had never experienced rainfall or thunderstorms or humidity. She had learned about these things in books, as she and the other members of the 100 had grown up expecting that their people would return to Earth someday, but it had always been an abstract concept.

Lexa finds that she can’t wait for Clarke’s first snow – she’s seen enough Trikru children experiencing snowfall with wonder and amazement for the first time, and imagines that Clarke will feel somewhat similarly – but as soon as she has the thought she pushes it firmly out of her mind. It doesn’t do to dwell on the future when there is so much to be done in the present.

Their positions among their people bring them together relatively often, but besides those brief moments when they can walk or ride or simply breathe together, their duties don’t often give them time to do more than exchange a few words and a tired smile. It seems like people are generally too tired to fight today, a fact for which their leaders are exhaustedly grateful, but there are still more than enough mishaps to keep them occupied. The road’s narrow, and not well-kept – hard to be concerned too much about maintenance, Clarke guesses, when you’re busy trying to fight a war – and three carts overturn, a horse breaks a leg and has to be put down, and several people get injured when a bank collapses under them. They lose nearly three hours taking care of the wounded and clearing the trail enough to continue on.

When night falls again they’re both stumbling with exhaustion. Lexa’s side is burning, but she forgoes the excuse to go and see Clarke about it and calls for Nyko instead. He mentions that the Sky People’s painkillers tend to work faster, but merely raises his eyebrows when Lexa snaps at him that she doesn’t care, just do what he needs to do and get out. After dosing her with a truly foul-tasting tea and changing her bandages, murmuring appreciatively over the reduction of the swelling around her stitches, he tells her to get some good sleep and leaves.

She lies back on her furs, thinking she’s going to try, but her eyes have only been closed for a moment when she hears footfalls outside her tent. They’re not of her people – the boots are too heavy, the steps too incautious – and she can only think of one person who’d be let this far without a challenge from her guards. She sits up just in time for Clarke to stumble directly into her arms. Mindful of the exposed nature of their position, she pulls Clarke all the way into the tent and throws the flap closed. “What are you doing here?” she says in a hushed voice. “I thought we said –”

“I know,” Clarke murmurs against her neck in a way that makes her shiver, “I just – I didn’t want to –” She sighs, her breath hot against Lexa’s skin. The Commander has to close her eyes and swallow hard for a moment. “I’m sorry, this was stupid. It was just that Octavia and Lincoln were being _loud_ and I might have shouted at them that concussed people shouldn’t be getting up to so much activity, and Octavia said that I was just jealous, and Lincoln said something in Trigedasleng that I’m pretty sure was rude, and I was just too tired to fight with them _and_ I’m pretty sure my mom is lying in wait to lecture me the minute I get back to the tent. Let me stay for just a bit? Please?”

There’s absolutely no way Lexa can say no to that, not in that cracked and exhausted tone of voice. She knows she ought to – should send Clarke back to her own tent with firm words about strength and caution and fighting her own battles – but instead she nods, wraps her arms more tightly around the Sky Girl and rubs small circles into her back. She feels Clarke sigh again and relax, shifting herself against Lexa’s chest to be more comfortable, and she fights hard to ignore the way her skin burns when Clarke’s touches it inadvertently.

“Have you given any more thought to what you’ll do when we reach the road for Camp Jaha?” Lexa says to distract herself. She’d said the question in an idle tone but it’s the last thing Clarke wants to consider right now, bound up as it is in concerns about her mother and her place in the world and whatever _this_ is with Lexa, who will _not_ be going to Camp Jaha, who will be returning to Tondc and eventually to Polis and who the hell knows when Clarke will see her again after that? The world is huge, she thinks, and considering its vastness makes her want to shut her eyes and never leave this tent.

“I still don’t know what to do,” she admits, after it’s been long enough that Lexa has started shifting under her. “I know that my mom expects me to come back with her to Camp Jaha and rejoin my people, but I also know that that’s asking for trouble. I mean, I knew there would be ever since I took Emerson out of the airlock, and ever since the missile, it's only gotten worse. It’s like she can’t even look at me.”

She feels Lexa’s shoulder stiffen under her cheek. “Do you think she might tell?”

Clarke looks up, sees the Commander’s eyes gone dark, and swallows. "She might." She doesn’t want to admit this, even to herself, but there’s a part of her mother that is still seething about the power her daughter has wrested from her, at the misplaced trust that the people of the Ark place in her. She hasn’t forgotten that Abby had Clarke’s father killed to preserve the status quo on the Ark. She thinks that her mother probably regrets it every day, but that doesn’t mean she won’t do it again.

“You can’t kill my mother, Lexa,” she says, trying to keep her tone light, but she gently yanks at the Commander’s shirt to get her attention. Lexa lets out a soft snort and turns her head away.

"Well, if I’m not allowed my usual methods, what do you propose? From what I’ve seen your mother will not relinquish her claim to power easily. And while she might have allowed you free rein during the war, I doubt she’ll let that continue much longer in peacetime. She _will_ stage a coup. The question is not if, but when. The only thing we have control over is our preparations.”

Clarke feels sick at heart, but she knows the Commander’s right. God, what kind of fucked up place is Earth that she’s strategizing with her…Lexa on how best to handle her mother and prevent a civil war? Yet it’s not this world that’s fucked up, she realizes – things were already this way on the Ark. They’d just brought it down here with them.

Clarke sighs, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think about it, really – I’ve just been so tired, and there’s been so much to do, and –”

“I know,” Lexa says, and she tries to follow it up with “But that can’t stop you, you’re a leader and you can’t let what you have to do today overshadow what must be done tomorrow,” but the words that actually come out of her mouth are “We’ll have half a day, maybe more, before you have to make that choice. You should sleep, Clarke.”

Clarke nods, then grins weakly. “I’m guessing sleeping here is out of the question?”

On this point, much as she hates to be, Lexa is firm. “Yes. I’ll walk you back to your tent.”

It’s certainly not a necessary gesture, but Clarke’s not about to pass it up – the night is cold, and Lexa is warm. Clarke doesn’t know if it’s a Grounder thing, or just a Lexa thing, but the girl’s like a damn furnace. So she walks closer than necessary to Lexa and, after a moment’s hesitation, feels the Commander’s arm wrap around her waist.

Abby’s standing like a guardian at the entrance to the tent, arms crossed and mouth set in a firm line. If at all possible it gets even more rigid when she sees Lexa, who distances herself from Clarke immediately and pulls on the Commander’s blank mask. “Abby Griffin.”

Abby ignores Lexa’s greeting, turning directly to Clarke. “She is absolutely not sleeping here.”

“ _Mom!_ Nothing happened, okay? We were just –”

“Goodnight, Clarke,” Lexa says pointedly over the two of them, as they begin to argue. The last thing she needs is for the Griffins to wake the entire camp with a midnight mother-daughter brawl. “I will see you in the morning to plan our final approach to Tondc. Goodnight, Abby Griffin.”

Clarke hears her mother mutter something that she suspects might be “Good riddance,” but Lexa chooses not to acknowledge it, merely sweeping off back up the line of the caravan towards her tent. Clarke lets herself think longingly of the warm mass of furs that cover the ground in the Commander’s tent, and then sighingly turns to her own tent and the sadly inadequate sleeping bag that awaits her.

Sleep, however, is nowhere to be found. Every time she closes her eyes the terror that had gripped her the night before climbs out of the pit of her stomach and squeezes at her throat. She twists and writhes in the bedroll, sweating and shivering, seethingly hot one moment and then achingly cold the next. The night feels breathless, endless – time seems to have stopped. The tent feels like a trap that is slowly closing around her suffocating her in its walls. She needs to get out.

After crawling out of the tent, she’s confronted by the sight of the sleeping army. She wants to pace out some of the tension in her muscles and her brain, but everyone’s packed in so tight she knows she’ll step on half a dozen heads before she goes three feet. The forest looms over the road, dark and tangled but also cool and shadowed, and she thinks she might be able to find some breathing room there. That thought becomes a sudden, visceral _need_ and so Clarke scrambles up the bank and into the forest proper.

She’s not aware of having a destination, but her feet feel directed anyway, drawing her deeper into the trees while still maintaining the line of the road. She figures that as long as she can keep it in sight she’ll be fine – and yet she also wants to disappear, fade into the darkness where no one can see her and count the dead in her eyes: 300 Grounder warriors; 250 from the village; 100 from the Mountain; Finn…

“Have you lost your mind?” a voice enquires, calmly amused. Clarke whirls and realizes all of a sudden that she has no idea where she is – the caravan is gone, she can’t see the road, and there’s no light except the moon filtering through the trees. Her mind spins in a panic and her skin feels too hot, and she can’t focus on the face that’s in front of her, the hands that grip her shoulders. She has to get away, has to get deeper into the forest, has to escape from the eyes that bore into hers…

“ _Clarke!_ ” Lexa’s voice. Lexa’s hands, shaking her and, when she won’t stop struggling to break free, Lexa’s leg sweeping hers and bearing her to the ground, pinning her solidly. She writhes for a few minutes but, when she realizes she’s barely even able to move, gives up. Her mind feels like it’s clear of everything. She supposes it should be a relief.

Lexa's leaning over her, breathing hard, eyes roving over her face as if searching for some sign that Clarke’s still in there. The gaze Clarke turns upwards towards her is blank, almost serene, yet Lexa knows the hurricane it hides. She has no idea what to say, doesn’t know if there’s anything _to_ say. The hard truth is that this kind of pain won’t go away in one night, or one week, or one month. Alien though it feels, all she can do is offer comfort. She leans back on her heels, sits Clarke up against her, and begins to braid her hair, working out from her temples with a steady, practiced hand. She murmurs, close to her ear, “Come back to me.” After a few minutes of trembling and quick, shallow breathing, to Lexa’s surprise, Clarke does.

“Lexa, what… Oh God, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking,” Clarke says, cringing. “Everything was just hot and dark and I had to get out but there was nowhere to go, so I just…went.” She can’t look at Lexa. She knows that any minute now she’s going to stop whatever she’s doing with her hair that feels amazing, and scold her for her stupidity, for not thinking about what it could mean for her people, for Lexa’s, and for the alliance in general if the _Heda kom Skaikru_ goes dashing into the forest and never comes back. But the recriminations don’t come; Lexa’s hands just keep moving, slow and steady. Clarke thinks she can hear her humming under her breath.

“How did you even know I was out here?” she says at last, when she finds her voice again. She tries to turn to look at Lexa’s face, to see what she’s thinking – not that her face has ever been a particularly good gauge – and is rewarded with a sharp tug on one of the braids that is currently being twisted into her hair.

“I heard something crashing around in the trees,” Lexa says. “I figured someone had gotten lost or it was something we shouldn’t have wandering too close to camp. I thought I would either scare it off or turn it into breakfast.” She points, and Clarke sees the sharp tip of a spear glinting in the moonlight. She snorts.

“Midnight hunt with no armor and no guards? Sounds like a great idea.”

“Probably about as good as going for a walk in a forest you don’t know, in the middle of the night, without so much as a candle,” Lexa says crisply, and punctuates her words with another sharp pull on Clarke’s hair. “There, you’re done.”

Clarke raises her hand to her hair and runs it along several rows of braids that Lexa’s twisted into it. She can’t see them, but from what she can feel they circle her temples. They’ll be excellent for keeping her hair out of her face in the morning. Clarke wonders if they have any significance beyond that, but she doesn’t ask. “Thank you.”

“ _Mochof,_ ” Lexa says. “The word is _mochof_. We need to improve your vocabulary if you’re going to be around Trikru.” 

“ _Mochof_ ,” Clarke repeats, and finally Lexa allows her to turn and face her. Her expression is unreadable in the darkness.

Lexa’s completely unprepared for Clarke to set her hands on Lexa’s shoulders and kiss her so hard it brings both of them to the ground. Clarke’s not entirely sure what she’s doing; she doesn’t want to be sure. She just _wants._

Lexa’s mouth opens reflexively under her own and Clarke takes the opportunity to explore it with her tongue; after a moment, Lexa returns the favor. Her hands, which have risen tentatively to Clarke’s hips, begin to traverse the lines of her body, sliding down to the curve of her waist and then curling around to cup her ass and squeeze firmly. Clarke gasps into the kiss and pulls back, staring. Lexa quirks an eyebrow at Clarke, challenging her to go on or stop. Her hands stay where they are. After a moment, Clarke feels desire make her head spin and presses her mouth back to Lexa’s, harder than before. Lexa groans at the force of it, grasping onto Clarke more firmly in a way that makes heat coil in the pit of her stomach and an ache throb to life between her legs.

She brings up her good arm to explore Lexa too, hand trailing appreciatively up the firm curve of her hip, the taut plane of her stomach. Her fingers play for a moment with the edge of Lexa’s shirt until she feels the Commander’s hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer and nipping at her bottom lip in a way that makes heat pulse through her body. Clarke takes this as encouragement enough and slides her hand under the shirt, feeling the contrasting softness of her skin and hardness of her stomach muscles as they tremble under her fingers.

Encouraged by the sudden quickening of Lexa’s breathing, Clarke explores further and more firmly, sliding her hand up the curve of her side. She pulls back to appreciate the sight of Lexa beneath her, panting, her own hands stilled, eyes sliding shut – and then, as Clarke glides up her ribcage, tracing the jagged line of a scar, Lexa’s entire body jerks, her eyes clenched, and a hiss escapes her lips. Clarke’s about to ask teasingly whether she’s _just that ticklish_ when Lexa’s hand flies up to her wrist and yanks it away from her body. Clarke’s brain is still muddy with desire, and she can’t imagine what could have gone wrong.

“Lexa, what –”

“Ribs,” the Commander gasps out, and Clarke lurches off of her.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think –”

“It’s fine,” Lexa says, sitting up and grabbing her before she can move too far away. She gives Clarke a wry smile. “We’ll just have to be careful with one another for the time being, I think.”

Clarke nods. All at once the realization of where they are, what they’re doing, and what time of night it is comes back to her, and leaves her head whirling with exhaustion. Lexa sees and takes it in.

“We should try to get some sleep.”

Clarke looks back in the direction of her tent mournfully. “I don’t think I can go back there.”

Lexa considers, takes a breath and lets it out, takes another one. She knows this isn’t the right choice, knows that it’ll probably have consequences, but she also knows that she can’t send Clarke back for another night of restlessness or nightmares. She lets her breath out in a rush. “Come back with me.”

The relief in Clarke’s eyes is so strong Lexa can feel it echoed in her own chest, even as Clarke says, “We shouldn’t… What will people say?”

“It doesn’t matter what people say,” Lexa says, “it matters what _I_ say. And I say that you cannot be a good leader without sleep.”

Clarke chuckles weakly at her posturing, but she’s too tired and worn to protest being given what she wants. Lexa rises, careful of her still-sore ribs, and reaches down to take Clarke’s hand. They make their way to the road and soon they’re back in the Commander’s tent. Clarke feels a deep, slow, aching tiredness seep through her body, nothing like the jagged, edgy exhaustion she’s been struggling with all day. This is the kind of tiredness that could lead her to actually get some sleep, she hopes.

It’s a little awkward when they first lie down. They’re all elbows and knees, bodies unaccustomed to sharing this little space. Clarke tries to fit herself to Lexa and winds up agitating her ribs again, then leaning on her hair, and then Lexa tries to readjust her and makes her arm hurt so much she gasps. They both pause and pull back, Lexa looking frustrated but determined to make this work, and Clarke can’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all. Eventually Lexa sighs and pulls Clarke into her arms, and it feels like two puzzle pieces coming together – they _fit_.

Clarke’s awakened by the sound of harsh shouts, words in a language she’s only passingly familiar with. Lexa’s already up, tugging on a short coat over her shirt, one Clarke’s never seen her wear. She can see her breath purling out on the air. She’s wrapped up snug in furs that still have some of Lexa’s heat, and she whines a little bit, watching the Commander pull on boots. “Are you sure we can’t just go back to sleep?”

In answer, Lexa grips the end of a fur and tugs, unrolling it with a practiced motion that spills Clarke, spitting curses, out of the bedroll. Her face is impassive as she watches Clarke struggle to rise, but Clarke knows her well enough to spot the glint of amusement in her eye. “Asshole.”

Lexa pretends not to hear. “It’s past time we were up. If we make good enough time we might make it to the crossroads by mid-afternoon.”

Clarke nods, but feels her heart sink, caught between the usual rock and hard place: she’s exhausted and wants nothing more than an honest-to-God bed, but at the same time getting closer to home means she’ll be getting that much closer to the decision she’s going to have to make today. Lexa had let her pass on that one last night, she knows, but it’s going to come back today to bite her in the ass.

Lexa keeps an eye on Clarke to make sure that she’s getting up, and not trying to roll herself back into the furs. As Clarke’s doing up the laces of her boots, she stops, and Lexa turns to hasten her along, but frowns when she sees the look on her face: like she’s been zapped with one of the Skaikru lightning rods. “What?” She has to repeat the question a couple of times before Clarke will answer her or even look at her. When she finally turns to Lexa, her grin is blinding, and it makes Lexa’s own heart sink at how beautiful she finds it. This is _not_ good. “What is it, Clarke?” she says once more, her voice soft.

“I think I know how what to do about my mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "Echo," The Hush Sound
> 
> Ah, injuries - the ultimate cockblock. But they do tend to heal...
> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment - it's fantastic to get them.


	8. Exploring you, ignoring commands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lexa is a nerd, Clarke is a teenager, Abby is overprotective, and Octavia is smug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your kind words! I had a hell of a week, so they were very appreciated. Props to Tofu9162, who is apparently psychic and read my mind about the plot. Anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one. As always, notes on the Trigeedasleng at the end.

The plan comes pouring out of Clarke in a rush. When she’s finished, Lexa says nothing, only stands there with a frown on her face. She’s silent so long that Clarke starts fidgeting, trying to decide whether slapping Lexa or kissing her will get her an answer faster. Just as she’s about to come to a decision Lexa lets out a breath. “I don’t know, Clarke. This plan may work to placate your mother but you are the leader my people look to, not Abby Griffin. They do not respect her as they respect you.”

“You can _tell_ them to respect her,” Clarke says, “and we can teach her what to do to make herself respected.” 

"That will, of course, require that she listens to us,” Lexa says, looking at her sharply. “Which is something she hasn’t been eager to do in the past.”

“I’ll make it happen,” Clarke says fervently. “I’ll make this work.”

Lexa looks away, trying to resolve Clarke’s plan in her mind. In moments like these she tends to default to the simplest solution: an assassination, a hunt gone wrong, an ambush. But she knows that’s not available this time: it might mean the preservation of the alliance if handled properly, but she knows it will mean losing Clarke’s trust, losing Clarke. She remembers before the battle, when Clarke had told her, _If you care about me, then trust me_ , and Lexa had ultimately decided to. It’s hard to do so again, to leave this vulnerable part of her exposed – but not, she realizes, quite as hard as it was the first time.

“Fine,” Lexa says, “let’s say you can get your mother to obey. The fact remains that my people do not see her as the leader of the Skaikru – they see you."

“And _mine_ see my mother as the sitting Chancellor,” Clarke says vehemently. “Most of them listened to me because my friends listened to me, or because my mom listened to me, or because I had five thousand Grounders at my back. And unless that’s changed…”

She trails off just as Lexa turns to her, eyebrow quirked. She knows what Clarke’s asking, but she wants to hear her say it. But the set of Clarke’s jaw tells her that she could be in for a long wait.

“That hasn’t changed,” she says slowly. “You in your position as…what did you call it?”

“Ambassador.”

“Ambassador,” she says, trying the word on her tongue, finding it unfamiliar and yet somehow reminiscent of something. “You will still have my backing, and the Trigedakru with me. And thus while you may not be officially the leader, your words will have weight all the same.” Slowly, a wolfish grin is beginning to creep up her lips.

“And no one can complain that I’m too young, that I’m just a kid, that I’m only leading by fiat, because I won’t be officially leading,” Clarke says gleefully, then sobers. “My mom will see right through that, of course.”

“She will,” Lexa says, “but there will be nothing she can do about it. That will be the deal. She will have her place as Chancellor of the Sky People, and you, in your position as Ambassador, will carry their concerns to the Trigedakru, and those of the Trigedakru to her.” Her grin is full and fierce now, and Clarke thinks about how terrifying she is, how beautiful.

“You know, we could probably use Ambassadors among all of the Trigedakru clans,” Lexa says thoughtfully, then her eyes go wide as she realizes exactly why the word jogged her memory: “And it may not be so difficult to get the other clans to go along with us, either.” She turns to Clarke, excitement making her eyes gleam, and Clarke sucks in a breath as she launches into her explanation.

“There's historical precedent for someone from each clan who held a similar position, back in better times,” Lexa says. “They were called _Amba_ , the Walkers, and they cycled between the various territories, bringing the concerns and news of each clan to the attention of the others, advocating for their own clans where necessary and meeting once a year in Polis to discuss clan business. It allowed the leaders to remain where they were most needed, and –“ Lexa allows herself a small smile – “to focus on the things they were best at. They were not always the most…diplomatic. They tended to prefer the sword to the word, and to carry blood feuds for generations. The _Amba_ allowed them not to have to meet, except on the battlefield.”

After she finishes, she realizes Clarke’s staring at her.

“What?”

“How do you keep all that in your head?”

Lexa regards her quizzically. “Understanding the history of my people was an important part of my training, as it’s impossible to avoid the mistakes of the past if they are not remembered. Apart from that, I always found history fascinating and was eager to learn as much of it as I could.”

There's a beat. And then, “So you're a giant nerd, huh?”

Lexa doesn't know the word, but from the way Clarke’s struggling not to smirk she can infer that it’s not particularly complimentary. Her eyes narrow. “Explain.”

Clarke bursts into a fit of giggles, and only giggles harder as she watches Lexa get more and more flustered when she doesn’t answer. “Clarke! I command you to tell me what this word means right now!” Her imperious tone makes Clarke break out in full-on cackles, and Lexa stalks out of the tent with a huff, pushing the flap aside with a sharp snap.

When Clarke’s composed herself, she joins her, shivering at the morning chill. The Commander’s toeing at the remnants of a fire with her boot, and Clarke wishes it was still going – she could definitely use some heat, because her light jacket just isn’t enough and Lexa’s borrowed coat is packed in with her gear back at her mother’s tent. The cold plants a seed in her mind, but it doesn’t yet grow – she’s got too many other things to worry about.

Lexa turns to her, a small, shy smile on her face. “You have my apologies, Clarke, for losing my temper.”

Clarke nods, shuffles a bit closer to Lexa, wishing she could take advantage of the fact that she seems to be a human furnace. “It’s fine.”

Lexa frowns as she notices Clarke shivering. “Are you cold? Would you like to return to your tent to put on something warmer?”

Clarke shrugs. “I’d love to, but I don’t really have anything warmer.” Wordlessly, Lexa pulls the jacket off her shoulders and drapes it around Clarke’s. Clarke wants to tell her not to, to give it back, to remind her that they’re supposed to be undercover about what they are to one another and that while the Grounders may not see the gesture this way, she knows _exactly_ how the Skaikru will interpret it – but the coat is warm, and it still holds the remnants of Lexa’s body heat, and when she turns her face into the collar and subtly sniffs, it smells like warpaint and woodsmoke and _Lexa_. She knows she’s being weak but at the same time she thinks that it might just give her the strength she needs to face her mother. So instead, she says, “Thank you,” smiling at Lexa.

“Of course,” the Commander says, nodding. “We should probably make our way to your end of the caravan, however, if we are going to present our plan to Abby Griffin. I will tell Indra to get the men on their feet, so that once we have finished they will be ready to begin the march.” She steps off to the front of the caravan, calling out in Trigedasleng. Clarke tries and fails to pick out any of the words, but they prompt quick reactions: warriors start rising to their feet, pulling on boots and packs and weaponry, collapsing tents and un-tethering horses and making ready to break camp. Clarke isn’t certain that the process requires _quite_ as much noise as they’re making, but she’s not going to question their methods.

After a few minutes, Lexa returns, stepping lightly over the assortment of bags and baggage still on the ground. “It’s done. Indra will get them moving. Let’s return to your camp.”

Clarke nods, and they begin making their way back towards the Skaikru segment, the Grounders parting before them and bowing for their Heda. Lexa acknowledges them with a nod. As they walk, Clarke asks, “Aren’t you going to be cold?”

Lexa shakes her head. “I do not chill easily. Mostly I wear the coat so that Indra and Nyko don’t fuss at me. Your concern is appreciated, however.” Clarke notices the corner of Lexa’s mouth curled up in a bit of a smirk, and hides her own grin in the collar of the jacket.

When they reach the Skaikru encampment, they find it stirring too. Octavia is emerging from the tent she shares with Lincoln, stretching and yawning ostentatiously; Lincoln has yet to emerge, and Clarke wonders uncharitably if Octavia’s managed to fuck him to death yet. As the girl catches sight of them, she breaks her stretch and nods to Lexa. “Heda.” She offers a cheeky grin. “ _And_ Clarke.”

"Octavia," Lexa says. "Excuse me. I will attempt to find Abby Griffin and Marcus Kane, as I believe he is also a member of your Council and should be present at our negotiation.” She steps off, striding through the chaos that is the Skaikru camp, and Clarke turns back to Octavia to see that the girl’s grin has gotten wider.

“Had a nice night last night?” Clarke asks sharply.

“Definitely,” Octavia says, raising her eyebrows suggestively, and Clarke makes a gagging noise, but stops when Octavia continues, “but it looks like you did too.”

Clarke frowns at her. “What do you mean?”

Octavia glances meaningfully towards the line of Clarke’s temples, and Clarke’s hand flies to her hair before she remembers the braids Lexa had twisted into it the night before.

Octavia quirks an eyebrow at her. “Subtle.”

“What?” Octavia just smirks and raises her hand to her own braids, which, Clarke can tell by the placement of hers, are different. “She didn't tell you what those mean, did she?”

Clarke sighs, feeling the headache roiling behind her temples kick up a notch. “No, Octavia, she didn't. What do they mean?”

Octavia doesn't bother to translate for her, but the word is similar enough to English that she doesn't need to.

“ _Kwin_.”

Before Clarke can grab Octavia and shake her until she elaborates, Lexa returns, trailing Marcus Kane and full of bustle and purpose. “Marcus of the Sky People says that he and your mother are the last remaining members of the Sky Council, so he should be present at this meeting too. He is going to fetch your mother, and we will reconvene in your tent.” Kane nods, and steps off to find Abby. Clarke is furious to find that Octavia has slipped away in the uproar, though she catches sight of her helping Lincoln dismantle their tent. As Clarke watches, she grins and points at Clarke; when Lincoln follows her gaze, his jaw drops. Clarke glares daggers at Octavia and mouths, _I’ll get you for this later_. But there’s no time to do more than that; Lexa, oblivious to the silent warfare between them, is hustling her towards the tent.

Clarke is tense as they enter, her shoulders set and her jaw grinding. Lexa has found that when Clarke is in this state, it’s best not to ask; it’ll come bursting out of her eventually. Instead, she positions herself behind Clarke respectfully, to make it clear that Clarke is the point person in this negotiation, but still near enough that she will be able to intercept any danger. Clarke snorts at her, a wry look in her eye suggesting to Lexa that she knows precisely what the Commander’s doing, but before she can say anything Kane returns with Abby in tow. Lexa can almost see the steam huffing from her nostrils. “Where have you been?” she says to Clarke before either of them can say anything. “You were out all night, and – were you with _her?_ ”

“Yeah, Mom, and you know what? I’m a damn adult and if I want to stay out at night I can do whatever the hell I –”

“You are eighteen years old, Clarke, you are not an adult and you still have to listen to –”

Their voices are escalating, and the tone of the meeting is going downhill fast. Lexa and Kane move at roughly the same time to step between Clarke and her mother before they can alert the whole camp to the fracas. “ _Nou mou!”_ Lexa says sharply, gently pushing Clarke a step back with a hand to her good shoulder just as Kane grasps Abby’s arms and draws her out of reach. “This is not an interrogation, Abby Griffin. We have come here to negotiate.”

“And do you speak for her?” Abby hisses, shaking Kane off of her at roughly the same time that Clarke brushes Lexa’s hand away.

“I could,” Lexa says darkly, at the same time Clarke says, “She does _not!”_ They trade a glare and an amused look before Lexa puts her hands behind her back and steps back to her position behind Clarke’s left shoulder, lowering her chin in an exaggerated show of deference that makes both Griffin women snort. Kane simply shakes his head and follows Lexa’s lead.

“All right, talk,” Abby says sharply, returning her gaze to her daughter and crossing her arms. “What are we here to negotiate?”

“How to keep lines of communication open between the Grounders and the Ark,” Clarke says, her posture mirroring her mother’s. “How to keep the alliance from failing. And…what I’m going to do when we reach the turnoff for Camp Jaha.”

Abby’s jaw tightens. “What are you suggesting?”

“An ambassador – me. I’ll move back and forth between Camp Jaha and Tondc while it’s being rebuilt, and then, when that’s finished, between our encampment and Polis. I’ll carry the concerns of the people of the Ark to the leaders on the Ground, and I’ll relay theirs back to the Sky Council. I’ll have diplomatic powers so that I can speak for you and for Lexa, because I’ll know what your opinions will be on whatever issues might arise. In either leader’s absence, my word will be yours.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Abby says tightly. “Clarke, you’re too young for this, it’ll be too dangerous –”

“I managed to live through a war, Mom,” Clarke says. “I think I can handle diplomacy.”

“You’ll be traveling more often than not, and that’ll leave you exposed! You have no idea what’s out there, any number of things could attack you en route –”

“I have a better idea than _you_ ,” Clarke says, and they’re moving closer to one another again. Lexa wonders how Clarke’s supposed to speak for her mother among the Trigedakru when she can’t even speak to her mother without it turning into an argument. Eventually she and Kane separate them again, and Lexa draws a breath, preparing for the unpleasantness that’s sure to ensue when she makes her move. Neither Clarke nor her mother are going to like this one bit.

“You are correct, Abby Griffin,” Lexa says. She ignores Clarke’s noise of outrage and pushes on. “The road between our two settlements is dangerous, and the road to Polis even more so. There are many dangers that could befall Clarke on the road. This is why I have a second proposal, one that may work to all of our benefit: a _gonakru kom shiljus_ , comprised of thirty of the most skilled and trusted warriors from both the Skaikru and the Trikru. They will be under my command and serve as my personal warband when I have need of them, but their lives will be sworn to Clarke, to fight and die for her if that is required. Clarke and I will each choose those among our people that we find most suitable – with your approval, of course.”

Both Griffins are spluttering in outrage now, Abby at the idea of losing fifteen of her best fighters, and Clarke at the end run that Lexa’s done around her. But Marcus Kane has had enough. “Those sound like acceptable terms, provided the Chancellor approves the list,” he says, speaking over both of them. “How will the Ambassador’s time be divided? How long will she spend in each place?”

“While I am still overseeing the rebuilding of Tondc, my suggestion is two weeks,” Lexa says, making each Griffin squawk louder. “After I return to Polis, we may need to reconsider due to the distance.”

“That sounds about right,” Kane says. “The terms of the agreement can of course be renegotiated at any time, should either party find themselves discontented?”

“Oh, I’ll show you discontent, you –” Lexa wraps one arm around Clark’s shoulders, restraining her, and claps the other hand over her mouth. She tries not to wince when Clarke bites into her palm, _hard_.

“Of course. I am glad to find the Sky People so reasonable,” Lexa says, and if she’s not wrong she catches an answering glint of amusement in Kane’s eyes. “If there’s nothing else to be decided, I propose that we get our people moving for the last leg of the trip. I’m sure both the Chancellor and the Ambassador will be overjoyed to reach their homes.”

At that point Clarke elbows Lexa sharply in her still-sore ribs and, as she’s gasping in pain, twists out of her hold and stomps on her foot for good measure. “Asshole,” she hisses, before turning to her mother, who’s expressing much the same sentiments to Kane.

“Well, Mom?”

Abby sighs, staring at the roof of the tent. “Do I have any choice? If I say no, I’ll have five thousand savages descending on my camp, won’t I?”

Lexa chooses to ignore the insult, though it makes her burn. “You are the leader of your people, Abby Griffin, and you have my word that if you do not agree to these terms you will come to no harm from me.”

“And we all know how good your word is, don’t we?” Abby hisses at her, and Lexa knows exactly what she’s talking about. Guilt and fury are at war within her; she forces herself to make her face a mask, her voice low and deadly soft.

“Whatever you personally think of my word, I can promise you this: make any attempt to restrict Clarke’s freedom and you _will_ have five thousand of my _savages_ on your doorstep.”

Clarke shudders and glances nervously at Lexa to see her glaring death at Abby. Deciding that preventing Lexa from killing her mother is more of a priority than killing Lexa herself, she says quickly, “Those are our terms, Mom. Take them or leave them.”

Abby’s jaw works for a few moments, and the air in the tent is breathless and tight. Finally she sighs. “I don’t see that there’s any other option.”

Clarke’s hands curl into fists as she fights to keep herself from pumping them in the air. But her mother’s eyes narrow. “I have two conditions,” she says, and Clarke digs her nails into her palms. She _knew_ this had been too easy.

“Name them.”

“First, _she_ doesn’t come with you,” Abby says, nodding at Lexa, who raises her chin. “She doesn’t cross the threshold of Camp Jaha. If we need to have talks, we have them at a point we’ve agreed upon in between. But when you’re here, you’re with _me.”_

Clarke nods tightly. She expected something like this, and quite honestly it’s not the worst idea, at least for now. Despite the fact that their alliance meant that the 47 were freed from Mount Weather, Lexa’s still not a popular figure among the people of the Ark – many remember all too well that it had been the Commander who’d been trying to kill them all in the first place, at least by proxy. Still, Clarke thinks, there will come a time when that prohibition will need to be lifted – but there can be negotiations for that later. Lexa looks murderous but Clarke touches Lexa’s wrist, and the Commander finally gives a minute nod.

“What’s the other?”

Abby squares her shoulders and tightens her jaw, and Clarke can see a gleam in her eye that makes her think, _Oh no. This is going to be bad._

“Second: when it’s time for Clarke to travel to Tondc, we make the announcement of your appointment as Ambassador. You will also publicly acknowledge me as Chancellor of the Ark and leader of my people.” She turns her glare on Lexa. “ _Both_ of you.”

"Absolutely not,” Lexa growls. “I am Heda. I will not bow to you.”

“No one said anything about bowing,” Abby says smoothly, her temper restored now that she feels she’s getting the upper hand. “I’m just asking you to make it clear to both of our people who’s in charge here. We all know that if you wanted to you could ride in and wipe us all out and be back at Tondc in time for lunch. Doesn’t seem such a large thing to ask.”

Clarke can practically hear Lexa’s teeth grinding in her head. She’s furious at her mother too, but the Commander’s about to derail the entire negotiation, and she can’t have that. Before Lexa can retort, she says, “We’ll do it.”

_“Clarke!”_

“I said we’ll do it,” Clarke says with iron in her tone, over Lexa’s protests. “I’ll stay the first two weeks with you at Camp Jaha to help get everyone resettled and reinstate the Sky Council. And then, when Lexa’s people come to take me to Tondc, we’ll announce my appointment and your leadership to the Camp, and then a delegation will come back with us to witness the same thing at the village.” Clarke quirks a humorless smile. “We can even have a party.”

She can feel the growing wrath of the Commander at her back, and hopes she has the good sense not to say anything, because her mother is actually weighing the decision, considering what Clarke has said like it was the suggestion of an adult, not her teenage daughter. Clarke feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the tent until her mother at last nods tightly.

Lexa bites off, “Fine. I believe we are done here. Ready your people; the Ambassador can come and tell me when you’re ready to move out.”

Without another word, she sweeps from the tent. Clarke stares helplessly after her, feeling like she’s both won and lost in equal measure and isn’t sure which is worse. She knows she’s mad at Lexa for going behind her back and almost completely co-opting the negotiations, but at the same time she and her mother had been going nowhere fast, and Lexa had gotten them started. And yet, if she’s going to be a diplomat, how is she supposed to learn if she’s not given the chance to try? This can’t happen again, she thinks; she’ll need to make Lexa promise. Bulling through her objections this way only hurts Clarke’s credibility, even if it gets the job done. This is one of those situations where the means are just as important as the ends.

Abby’s looking at her curiously, like she’s seeing Clarke with new eyes, or maybe wondering whether she’s ever known her at all. Clarke returns her gaze levelly. “Are we through?”

“I think so,” Abby says in clipped tones. “We should be ready to leave soon. Make sure your things are packed.” Clarke nods and starts gathering the few items that had made it out of her backpack the night before. She thinks her mother’s left, but after a few minutes she hears a sigh.

“Clarke, I just… I hope you know what you’re doing, okay? I don’t know what you have going on with Lexa but she’s not _safe_. She’s different from us, she thinks different ways, and she’s been cruel before. Or have you forgotten Raven? Have you forgotten Finn?”

“You do _not_ get to talk to me about him,” Clarke growls, shoving her things into her pack without regard to organization, only haste. She can’t get out of this tent fast enough.

“And I know that what happened with the missile wasn’t just your idea,” Abby continues, and Clarke can’t meet her eyes, feeling like the breath has been sucked from her lungs. “Whatever part you had in it, I know hers was at least equal, if not greater. Just remember the kind of person you’re dealing with here, Clarke. I’m not your enemy.”

“Yeah, well neither is she,” Clarke says, but her mother is stepping out of the tent and gives no sign that she’s heard.

Clarke takes a quick lap of the Ark portion of the caravan, but her mother appears to have everybody pretty well in hand; the wounded are loaded onto their wagons, the Maunon’s radiation suits have been refilled with oxygen, and most of the tents are down and stowed. She makes her way up the Grounder line, mind churning with everything that’s just happened, and finds Lexa mounted at the head of the caravan, next to the horse Clarke had ridden yesterday. She won’t look at Clarke; instead, she gestures at Ryder, who presents the mare’s stirrup for Clarke. “ _Mochof_ ,” she tells him as she swings herself into the saddle, feeling her muscles protesting. Clarke thinks she can see a grin twitching at the corners of Lexa’s mouth, but it’s gone too quickly for her to be sure.

“We’re ready, Commander,” Clarke says to her, and Lexa nods, then turns to Indra, standing on her left.

“ _Oso gyon au houm_.”

Indra echoes the order in a roar; horns blow, and the Skaikru and Grounder army begin their final push towards Tondc and Camp Jaha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Write a comment; feed a writer! Tell your friends. Chapter title is from "Kings and Queens," Misterwives
> 
> Trigedasleng:
> 
> *means I made stuff up
> 
> *Amba: ambassador, literally “walker.” Slurred from both ambassador and ambulate/ambulatory. 
> 
> Kwin: queen
> 
> Nou mou: No more. 
> 
> Gonakru: group of warriors; warband.
> 
> *Gonakru kom shiljus: bloodguard warband. I will shamelessly admit that I lifted this idea from A Song of Ice and Fire, specifically the Bloodriders of the Dothraki Khals. For those not familiar with the books, a khal is the leader of a Dothraki horde; his Bloodriders are sworn to his service and are his most trusted and loyal subjects. If he dies, they die – even if they aren’t killed in battle, they’re sworn to kill themselves because they weren’t able to protect him. Given some of the parallels between Grounder and Dothraki society, I figured this concept would fit right in. Plus I also shamelessly headcanon Lexa as Dany and Drogo's somehow surviving child. Like it would be kind of perfect.
> 
> Mochof: thank you
> 
> Oso gyon au houm: we’re going home.


	9. Don't waste your time on me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke and Lexa are stupid and bad at talking to each other, and Clarke has bad dreams and a dirty job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I was blown away by the response to the last chapter. I hope you guys like this one as much. Things are definitely getting angstier and our two favorite idiots are going to be spending some time apart from one another, which will give them some space to deal with the home front and figure out some stuff. Originally chapters 9 and 10 were one very long, very angsty chapter 9, but I split them up because if I didn't it could possibly be classified as hazardous waste material.
> 
> Like usual, let me know what you thought about this one. Comments make the world go round! 
> 
> As always, notes on the Trigedasleng at the end.

The army behind them is jubilant at being so close to home, laughing and singing and blowing their warhorns, but Clarke and Lexa ride mostly in silence. Every time Clarke dares a quick glance at the Commander her face is impassive, only a slight tightness to her jaw to suggest anything might be wrong. She does not return Clarke’s looks. Clarke knows that Lexa must be angry with her for accepting her mother’s terms, but she’s just as mad. Lexa _can’t_ blindside her like that and expect Clarke to be okay with it – not if they want her position to be anything more than a title. 

The forest is starting to grow familiar even to Clarke, beginning to look like the places she raced through with Lexa on the run from a mutant gorilla, and traversed on her way between Camp Jaha and the village. She knows the crossroads will be coming soon. “We should probably figure out how we’re going to do this,” Clarke says, eyeing the road ahead.

"You go your way, we go ours,” Lexa says tonelessly. “We meet again in the middle in two weeks’ time.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. Lexa being obtuse is simultaneously infuriating and hilarious because she’s just acting so _childish_. Again a feeling rises that she has come to associate strongly with Lexa: a swift, violent urge to hit her and then kiss her, or maybe the other way around.

“I meant how we’re going to separate the army. I’m pretty sure my people aren’t going to like waiting behind while your entire army goes through the crossroads.” The path, Clarke knows, narrows at the junction, running through a slot canyon hollowed out by Grounders decades ago with the specific design of funneling their enemies into a tight, narrow space where they can be picked off one by one by Trikru arrows. The only other options are to go down the crags to the right or left of the pass – impossible with carts and horses and wounded – or take a far longer route to the west. Clarke knows this because Lexa has explained it all at length, plus various battles and skirmishes in history that took advantage of this tactic. Clarke’s eyes had glazed over about a third of the way through.

Lexa considers. She knows Clarke’s right, but a perverse part of her thinks it sounds like an excellent idea to make the Skaikru wait behind while every single one of the Trikru warriors, injured, carts, and pack animals pass through the Tree Gate, as the canyon’s called. But she also knows that this will only serve to incense Clarke and her mother and make their alliance even tenser than it already is. At last she says, “The canyon allows for two to pass through side by side. We’ll form our people up into two lines, one Skaikru, one Trikru; it’ll delay us, but not long. There aren’t very many of you, after all.”

Clarke nods. It’s not going to be easy, but it seems like the best way to keep the peace.

The Tree Gate draws into sight soon after, and as Lexa clocks the sun at one point off noon, she calls her generals to her to explain the plan and get their squad leaders started on its implementation. After a moment’s hesitation, Clarke urges her horse into a trot in the direction of the Skaikru portion of the caravan to make Abby aware of the situation and start their own preparations. Lexa watches her bouncing along on the mare’s back and winces for the horse.

It takes long enough for Clarke to return – looking decidedly grumpier every time the trot jolts her – that Lexa has begun to wonder whether she’s fallen off and injured herself, and whether she should go look for her. But it turns out that her mother had put up a fight – arguing, as Clarke spat, for the sake of arguing – and her delay had been due to convincing her mother that it would be very bad diplomacy to demand that the entire Trikru army press itself up against the sides of the canyon to let the Sky People pass. Yes, it would take longer this way, but it also wouldn’t start a riot. They’d all get home eventually.

Of course, a riot nearly does start – neither group is particularly fond of the plan, with the Grounders being of the opinion that since they had borne the brunt of the assault on Mount Weather, the Skaikru owed them deference; and the people of Camp Jaha maintaining that since there were so few of them, it would just make more sense to let them go first. Not even Indra’s barking and Bellamy’s roaring and Octavia’s (largely empty) threats to bust some heads from where she sits on her cart keeps them from muttering at each other as they jostle into their separate lines, aiming surreptitious kicks and blows. At Lexa’s insistence, she and Clarke completely absent themselves from the chaos, sitting on their horses at the edge of the crossroads, allowing their generals and squad leaders and seconds to sort it out. If a fight does break out, their horses could spook and they might be trampled in the fracas if they fell. Clarke can see Lexa sag slightly on her horse, however, and thinks it might be due more to exhaustion than anything else.

Finally, however, the Skaikru and Trikru are arranged into two ill-tempered, vaguely mutinous lines, and Lexa calls out the order to “ _Gyon au houm_.” With some loud cheers and louder muttering, the two groups begin to move.

It takes nearly an hour. By the time the last Sky People are passing through the Tree Gate, it’s well past the lunch hour and Clarke’s stomach is snarling. But Lexa hasn’t asked for any food, has barely sipped from the skin of water Nyko pressed on her, and Clarke will be damned if she shows any weakness in front of her. The Commander’s statuesque demeanor makes Clarke’s heart sink a little bit – it’s much like it had been in those first days, when Lexa had been something so strange and fierce and stoic that she’d barely seemed human. Clarke’s seen what Lexa looks like when she’s in pain, in victory, in anguish, in lust – and while on the one hand she doesn’t think she can ever forget it, she can’t help but wonder if she dreamed it. That Lexa seems to have withdrawn further than ever into the Commander’s shell. Clarke wonders when she’ll see her again.

The last two Sky People to pass through the Gate are Abby and Kane. As they approach, Lexa dismounts respectfully, and after a moment Clarke clumsily follows her lead. Lexa can feel something pressing at her temples, behind her eyes – something to do with the leavetaking, she thinks, and Clarke – but she doesn’t want to consider it, so she pushes it into a tight, hot lump under her breastbone and works to ignore it. Kane and Abby nod stiffly to her as they go by, and then pass on down the road to Camp Jaha. The Trikru surge forward to fill the gap, calling out joyously as their pace increases.  

“Guess it’s time, then,” Clarke says, the croak in her voice giving the lie to the lightness of her words. Lexa merely nods, not looking at her. A pressure is building in Clarke, making her feel like she’ll burst if she doesn’t one of the things she’s been craving all morning – kiss Lexa, or kill her, or maybe both. But then Lexa turns to her and her eyes are clear.

“Farewell, Clarke of the Sky People,” she says. “May we meet again.”

Clarke's voice has caught in her throat. It's not until Lexa has mounted her horse again and begun to ride up the length of the column of Grounders that she can manage to whisper, “Goodbye.”

* * *

 

It takes them the rest of the day to return to Camp Jaha, and they don’t even have time to celebrate before they have to deal with the first crisis: what to do with the Maunon. By Raven’s estimation they’ve gone through about a quarter of the oxygen tanks hauled grudgingly to the camp’s gates by Grounder carters. Now that they’re not walking the O2 usage should go down, but the fact remains that the Mountain Men’s days are numbered by the levels on their meters. They have the airlock that was set up for Emerson, but it’s not nearly large enough to hold all of the survivors, or the Spared as people have started calling them. They’re in a race against time.

After consulting with Maya, who appears to be speaking for the Spared at this point, it’s decided that until Raven and Wick can get two more of the bays rigged up as decontaminated zones, they’ll cycle through who gets to be outside of the suits, giving everyone a chance to bathe, eat, and spend time without squeaky rubber cloaking their bodies. They start with the youngest children and a few of the older ones to assist them, and the amount of sobbing and wailing makes Clarke’s head throb. She could hate Lexa for what was done here; and yet, she knows, if not for what Clarke’s people would call savagery and what the Commander’s would call weakness, none of them would be here to breathe the stale air and eat the shitty food and wait for Clarke’s mother to maybe, possibly, deliver them to the outside world.

Abby has thrown herself into the development of the cure, barricading herself in the medical wing with the doctors and nurses left from the Ark, and a couple of the Mountain Men with some medical training whom she barrages with questions daily about the marrow treatments, attempting to make sense of the notes and reports that she’s taken from the Mountain (Lexa had wanted to burn them; Clarke had agreed, and then stuffed them into her coat when Lexa’s back was turned). Clarke knows she’s doing important work – without it, the Maunon have been saved from the Mountain only to die a little later, and in far more pain – and she’s also tending to the injured Sky People and to those Grounders that she had demanded return to Camp Jaha for immediate intervention or direct observation. Every time Clarke visits the medical wing she’s running around doing something, barking orders or tending to experiments or fixing a bandage or a suture. Clarke can’t say for sure whether she sleeps.

But this leaves the running of Camp Jaha largely to Marcus Kane, as the last remaining member of the Council, though they have all agreed that elections should be held soon. Clarke can tell that he’s running himself ragged and offers to help, but he eyes her frankly and says, “Maybe you should ask the Chancellor.” Clarke nods and leaves, knowing exactly what he means by it: having her issuing orders can only hinder the process of transferring authority back to her mother.

And it’s already going to be hard enough: people keep coming up to her and asking her to solve disputes, or consulting with her on things that are really none of her business. She does her best to gently direct them to Kane, but the looks of hurt and bewilderment they give her – like she’s abandoned them, somehow – eventually take their toll, and she begins to avoid people altogether. She’s tried to help in the medical wing, knowing she’s got at least as much skill as some of the nurses there, but it usually only takes an hour or two before she gets sick of sniping back and forth with her mother.

To eat up her spare time, Clarke haunts the deserted halls of the Ark with a map, making notes on planned improvements to help house the Mountain Men once they’ve been treated and to repurpose rooms for uses more suited to the ground. But she works at it only half-heartedly - she’s planning to present the ideas to her mother, but she knows she probably won’t listen. So she wanders, and tries not to jump at shadows, and tries not to think.

She’s not the only one chafing at the order of things, though, she realizes when she comes upon Bellamy and Octavia arguing furiously in an empty corridor. “You can’t stop me,” Octavia hisses as Clarke halts just behind an exposed beam.

“Wanna bet, gimpy?” Bellamy says nastily, and there’s the sound of a smack. “Hey, _ow!_ ” Clarke grins to herself. With how Octavia’s been training, she bets that really hurt.

“ _Shof op_ , you big baby,” Octavia says. “As soon as Abby clears Lincoln for travel, we’re going back there. They’re his people, and I’m Indra’s second. It’s time for me to get back to training.”

“No way,” Bellamy says mulishly. “You need way more rest – _bed_ rest – than you’ve gotten, and theseare _your_ people, O.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Octavia says, her voice low. “These are the people who kept me under a floor and locked me up for most of my life. The Grounders gave me a sword, taught me to fight, and made me a warrior. There’s no way in hell I’m staying here once I have two good legs.”

There’s silence for a long, awkward moment until Bellamy bursts out, “Goddammit, Octavia, I just got you back! I can’t lose you again.”

At this point Clarke can’t listen to any more. She leaves as quietly as she can, hoping to find something to keep her mind off the Blake family drama. She drops by the airlock, where the teenage Spared are having their turn out of the suits, eating dinner and washing off as best they can with buckets and towels. They all look miserable, worn out and wan and pale, and Clarke knows that even if her mom can devise a treatment, the first few years are going to be very hard on them – they’ll have very little in the way of immune systems, and are probably going to be allergic to everything until they start to build up tolerances.

And then there’s their origin, which isn’t lost on anyone: while they haven’t been taking blood from Clarke’s people for generations, everyone from the Ark has learned by now about what they’d been doing, and what they’d been planning to do. While the Spared had had no part in the depredations, they’re still eyed with distrust and shunned as they go about in their suits. With their pallor and their ignorance about life on the ground, Clarke thinks, they could blend in pretty easily with the rest of the Sky People; but the suits make them stick out like sore thumbs. When they’re not in the airlock they tend to cluster together, keeping out of the way of the Arkers. Clarke doesn’t blame them.

Jasper has been serving tirelessly as a go-between for the Ark and the Maunon, with the assistance of Maya. As Clarke approaches, they’re speaking via the intercom. The girl’s face is softly radiant as she talks to Jasper, and Clarke watches as she presses her hand to the glass of the door. After a moment, Jasper presses his hand against hers on the opposite side. “Soon,” she hears him tell her. “It’s gotta be.”

Maya smiles. “We’ll wait, Jas. We have to.”

“Yeah, but maybe _I_ don’t want to wait.”

Maya chuckles tiredly. “I don’t think we have much choice here.”

“Is Avery still causing trouble?”

“No, he and his band of merry men seem to have settled down for the moment, after I convinced him not to do anything stupid.”

“Good. Last thing we need is a riot on our hands.”

Clarke had intended to check in with Maya about tensions in the airlock, but their conversation is progressing rapidly towards the romantic, so she moves on quickly. The rest of the first week passes largely this way, with her moving about Camp Jaha like an exalted ghost, lonely on the pedestal on which she’s been placed by many of the Arkers. She tries to visit with Raven several times but she’s busy either fucking or fighting with Wick, and after Clarke’s walked in twice on some interesting combinations of the two, she gives up. At least they’re being productive; one of the new airlocks is nearing completion and will be ready for testing in a few days.

With not a whole lot more to do, she broods. There had been a time, she knows, when Octavia and Bellamy would both have come to her separately to complain about their respective siblings – and yet when she eats with them the next morning in the dining hall, neither Blake says a word about their fight. Most people give her space out of deference, but what Clarke wants is for them to fill that space with words, with action, anything to keep it from being filled up by ghosts.

Except for that one night’s respite with Lexa, every night has brought the same nightmare: an endless parade of her dead cutting her with knives, branding her with irons, burning her with torches, and ceaselessly chanting _Jus drein jus daun_. Sometimes Finn is the last in line, slipping a knife between her ribs and whispering, “Thanks, Princess”; other times it’s Lexa, positioning her sword just so that it slides in under Clarke’s breastbone and murmuring, “ _Yu gonplei ste odon._ ” Either way, Clarke wakes up screaming.

The first time it had happened one of the patrolling guards had raced in, looking for an assailant, but eventually they grow accustomed to it and no one comes to get her. She can’t help but yearn for warm hands twining braids through her hair, warm arms wrapping around her, warm lips against the back of her neck. She shakes these thoughts out of her mind as soon as they arrive, but just like the nightmares they return the next night anyway.

She misses the openness of the Grounder camp, where she could just sprint into the woods when she needed time away from everyone. The gates of Camp Jaha are closed at night to keep out wild beasts, and the electric fence is active; they remain open during the day, as the Grounder threat is over, but everyone will see her leave and want to know where she’s going. She thinks longingly of the times when she could just stomp her way over to the Grounder camp and barge into Lexa’s tent. Lexa wouldn’t ask what had happened or what was wrong; she’d simply acknowledged Clarke’s entry and continue with whatever she was doing, ignoring her more or less completely unless Clarke wanted to talk. When she did, Lexa would listen, her eyes never moving from Clarke’s face, only offering her opinions if they were asked for. Clarke rarely did – it was usually enough to just have someone listen, as Lexa did, silently and completely.

As one week inches towards two, however, Clarke knows she must do what she’s been dreading: select her _shiljus._ When she asks, Lincoln translates the world to roughly mean “Bloodguard.” It’s an old tradition, he explains, a group of the most trusted and most skilled warriors in the clan chosen to pledge their blood and their lives to their Heda, to fight and die at her side. When she answers his question about why she wants to know, his eyebrows shoot up and he croaks out, “It’s for the Commander…and _you?”_ She tries to play it off with a teasing comment about how Lincoln clearly can’t think much of her, but he’s looking at her with something like wonder.

She doesn’t even know where to start. She has no idea how to go about asking anyone to _go die for me_ ; just thinking about it makes her feel sick. But Lincoln had also said that the Bloodguard was about trust – the people she can trust most in the world. With that in mind, she begins to formulate a plan.

She corners Octavia in the corridor outside the med wing, where she’s grimly marching through her physical therapy. She’s been recovering remarkably well, Abby has said, but “Not fast enough,” she grunts when Clarke compliments her. “I didn’t even want to come back here but your mom insisted, mostly on account of Lincoln – they clocked him really hard, and he’s still having dizzy spells.”

Clarke nods, silently putting one more piece of the puzzle together. When she doesn’t respond, Octavia stops her medically regulated pacing and turns to her, eyebrow raised. “What?”

Clarke snaps out of her thoughts. “What do you mean, what?”

“You want something, Clarke. Just spit it out.”

Clarke decides prevarication is not the way to go with this one. “I’m supposed to be picking people for – well, I don’t really know what it is, technically, but it’s kind of like a group of really close advisors and protectors. I know you said you’re a Grounder, Octavia, but I _know_ you – you’re not just going to abandon your friends.”

Octavia’s eyes narrow. “What are you planning, Clarke? Is this something with Lexa? Because I don’t want any part of it.”

In a rushed whisper, Clarke details the rest of the plan. When she finishes, Octavia’s frowning at the floor, her exercises forgotten. “I don’t know, Clarke. It’s…a lot to think about. Besides, I’m not even really a warrior yet – I’m still Indra’s second until I go through initiation. Which won’t ever happen,” she finishes with a snarl, “if my stupid leg won’t heal!”

“Somehow I don’t think yelling at it’s going to help,” Clarke snipes before she can help herself, and dodges when Octavia swings at her lazily. “But seriously, think about it and let me know. We’re going to be making the announcements next week, when Lexa comes to the camp.”

Octavia nods. “I will.” Clarke thanks her and continues to the next portion of the plan: Lincoln. After a few moments of consideration, he shakes his head.

“I don’t think I’d be the best choice, Clarke.”

“Why? You’re one of the best warriors I’ve ever met! You’re smart, you’re fast, you’re an incredible fighter, and you know more about the forest than anyone I’ve met, Sky Person or Grounder! And you’ve been there for us, for me, every time. Plus…I’ve asked Octavia.”

Lincoln looks pained. “What did she say?”

“She said she’d have to think about it. Probably because it would also mean guarding Lexa – but if you were there with her, maybe she wouldn’t mind so much. Come on, Lincoln, I need you with us!”

“You really don’t,” Lincoln says slowly. “In the eyes of my people, I’m still a traitor, and to become _shiljus kom Heda_ is a very high honor. You’ll anger a lot of people if you do that.”

“I don’t care,” Clarke says fiercely. “I need people I _know_ I can trust, and you’ve proven that you’re one of them over and over again.”

“Let me talk to Octavia,” Lincoln says, “and I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”

Clarke nods, accepting it, and leaves to find the third and final part of the plan.

She finds him with one of the Grounder healers that Lexa had detailed to come to Camp Jaha to flesh out Abby’s ranks. Clarke hears the girl’s giggle and Bellamy’s low voice before she rounds the corner, but her mind doesn’t jump to the right conclusion until it’s too late. “Oh – oh god. Okay. I – um. I guess I’ll come back later.”

She retreats, attempting to erase the last twenty seconds from her brain, with little success. The sight of Bellamy strolling around the corner a minute later, casually shirtless and buttoning up his pants, certainly doesn’t help matters. “Problem, Princess?” he says, grinning broadly, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. Clarke rolls her eyes at him.

“Now look who’s joined Team Grounder Pounder. Guess it runs in the family, huh?”

“Guess it does,” Bellamy says, crossing his arms and squaring his jaw. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?”

“I think I’ve figured out a way to give you and Octavia both what you want.”

“And how’s that? O’s dead set on going back to Tondc and resuming her samurai training or whatever she’s been doing.”

“And you want to look for that girl you met in Mount Weather,” Clarke says.

Bellamy looks mulish. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Bellamy, I’m too tired for it,” Clarke says. “She’s a Grounder, right? Where else are you gonna find her if not with the Grounders? If you join, we won’t just be going to Tondc – we’ll be going to Polis. That’s the Grounder capitol. You’ll have the best chance of finding her there.”

Bellamy looks at her for a long minute, frustration and longing chasing each other across his face, but finally he shakes his head slowly. “My first priority is keeping my sister safe.”

“She’s going to be in danger no matter what,” Clarke says. “She’s in training to be a warrior of the Trikru – it’s kind of what they do. You can’t stop her from putting herself in the line of fire – but you _can_ help keep her from getting burned.”

Bellamy eyes her narrowly. “You’re pretty good at this stuff, Princess, you know that? Making all of your little puzzle pieces fall into place. All right, I’ll think about it.”

Clarke nods. “Thank you.”

As she walks off, she notices that her hands are shaking. When she tries to go to sleep that night, she thinks about the conversations she’s had, with three of the people she trusts and cares about most in the world. They’d all been different, addressing what she knows of each one’s needs and deepest-held desires, but they’d all amounted to the same thing, hadn’t they?

_Go die for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to fit in the phrase "Team Grounder Pounder" somewhere. I don't think we've seen the last of it. Chapter title is from "I Miss You," blink-182
> 
> Trigedasleng:
> 
> *means I've made stuff up
> 
> Gyon au houm: Go home
> 
> Shof op: be quiet
> 
> Jus drein jus daun: blood must have blood
> 
> Yu gonplei ste odon: Your fight is over
> 
> shiljus: Bloodguard (see notes in last chapter)
> 
> shiljus kom heda: Bloodguard of the Commander


	10. You're already the voice inside my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke is a manipulative little bitchmonkey, and Indra is forcibly reminded why Lexa should never, ever be allowed to brood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Sorry this update took so long, I'm a magazine editor and I was trying to get my first issue EVAR to print, plus I realized in the middle of writing Chapter Twelve that I really hated the direction the story was going. But changing it required rewriting a lot of this chapter and Chapter Eleven. But it's here! Thanks for all of your really nice comments! I think it's funny that two people have now likened the arrangement between Clarke, Lexa, and Abby (where Clarke spends two weeks at Camp Jaha, and then two at Tondc, and then goes back again) to the Greek myth of Persephone, Hades, and Demeter. I wasn't intending to make that connection, but I can totally see it - Greek myths were my bedtime stories growing up, so I always have them in the back of my mind somewhere. 
> 
> Anyhoo, I've rambled long enough. Hope you enjoy this one, and notes on the Trigedasleng are, as always, at the end of the chapter. Let me know what y'all think!

The next morning, when Clarke enters the dining hall, she feels the pressure of eyes on her more acutely than usual, and almost turns right back around and goes back to bed. The only thing that stops her is the sight of Lincoln, Octavia, and Bellamy sitting together at a table, their heads bent close in conversation. When Clarke sees them her throat closes up in a combination of happiness and envy – they look like a family. Before long, they look up and notice her, and all stand more or less at once.

“You’re a manipulative little bitchmonkey,” Octavia announces, reaching out to punch her arm in a way that hurts but takes the sting out of her words. Clarke grins back weakly.

“Did it work?”

“It did,” Bellamy says. “When you go back to Tondc – and wherever you go after that – we’re going with you.”

Clarke feels the weight of days’ worth of emotion she’s been tamping down come crashing onto her shoulders, and buckles with it. “Thank you,” she manages to breathe before she has to shuffle to the food line to get away from them. When she leaves Camp Jaha, her friends will be coming with her. The puzzle pieces arefalling into place.

She’s just missing one.

 

* * *

 

Lexa throws herself into the rebuilding of Tondc, hoping the physical labor and the effort of planning and organization will relieve her from the feeling that plagues her, like an itch she can’t scratch because it lives under her skin. But she’s so argumentative and snappish with everyone that, after only a day and a half of work, Indra gently suggests that her talents might be better suited to overseeing the finished product of their labors. Lexa knows a rebuke when she hears one and slinks off, followed by Ryder, to brood in her tent.

She manages about a day in there, pretending to be sick when Ryder asks and getting her meals brought to her so she doesn’t have to face anyone. She tries to read one of the new books she’s brought from Mount Weather – which reminds her, she’ll need to get the word out about the others before the rainy season starts – but she can’t settle to it. She alternates the rest of the day between pacing and lying on various flat surfaces, trying to quiet her mind. It doesn’t work. By dusk, she thinks she’s going to go mad or kill somebody if she can’t get away, so she quietly slips out of her tent and into the forest. Between the trees she feels a measure of peace, and she makes her way to a favorite meadow to watch the sun rise.

It’s not long before she’s searched for and found, however. When she snaps at her guards to leave her alone they withdraw, but she can feel their eyes on her as she moves about the meadow and the peace is gone. She spends the next few days devising ever more ingenious methods of giving them the slip – a game she hasn’t played since she was fifteen. Anya had beaten her ass roundly for it whenever she got caught – though she often allowed Costia’s mother the honor, if Lexa had managed to convince Costia to slip away together, and that was usually worse.

But eventually she gets tired of the game, and the worry and resignation on the faces of those tasked with keeping her from harm, and turns her attention to organizing her days in ways that take up the empty space left by war planning and strategy and intelligence-gathering and Sky People. As soon as Nyko reluctantly clears her she organizes hunts – every morning, as a matter of fact, trimming back the local deer and boar populations and, when she’s woken up feeling particularly vicious, larger game like fox-cats and bears. If she can't help the people of Tondc rebuild, at the very least she can feed them while they do so, and make sure that they don’t die of starvation or at the claws of predators when the winter comes.

She trains vigorously, going for long runs in the forest to rebuild the endurance she knows she’s lost during the war; Ryder accompanies her, as he’s the only one who can keep up with her over the punishing distances she travels. She drills her warriors relentlessly and works through a series of sparring bouts to select her _shiljus_. As many of her personal guard have been wiped out, either in the battle for Mount Weather or the missile attack, she’s forced to choose from fighters who are relatively unfamiliar to her. She tries not to select too many squad leaders or generals, as she does not want to leave their villages without protection or leadership, but instead consults with each of them as to which of their warriors they recommend, and invites their choices to spar with her.

She is most impressed by Kyro, a cousin of Nyko’s who has diverged from the healer’s path of his family and recently passed his initiation under Lya, one of the generals of the neighboring villages; Neia, a squad leader from a far-flung town on their northern border, who has grown up skirmishing with the Azgeda and is grimly familiar with their tactics; and then there is Tor, a silent, hulking bear of a man who is so instantly familiar it makes Lexa’s throat close up to look at him. Indra makes the introduction, though Lexa’s known it since she first saw his face: “ _Em laik bro kom Gostos.”_ Lexa nods, not trusting herself to speak. She invites Tor to join her _shiljus_ without testing him.

And yet it’s still not enough. She returns to her tent every night with her body exhausted but her mind humming. In part it’s with plans – the optimization of Tondc’s repairs, border skirmishes to keep the Azgeda on their toes, a new wing she wants to add to her house in Polis – but no matter how much she tries to stop, it always returns to golden hair and the softest lips Lexa’s have ever touched. She’s filled simultaneously with lust and rage – the two so close they’re intertwined – and she often finds herself punching her pillow and snarling in fury and frustration. But there’s something more, something she doesn’t realize until one morning just before dawn – the hour her mind usually spends on its favorite subject exclusively:

She misses Clarke.

The moment she realizes this she’s out of bed; her horse is saddled and cantering down the road to Camp Jaha before she’s finished blinking sleep out of her eyes. After a few minutes she stops, checks reflexively to see if she’s been followed – Ryder’s gotten better at being subtle, but she can typically spot him within a minute and lose him within five, and the rest still leave much to be desired – and, after satisfying herself that she has not, continues on. Good, she thinks. There should be no one to witness their Commander’s weakness. She urges Gona into a steady trot, hating herself for how eager she feels as his hooves eat up the miles.

She’s regretting her rashness immensely by midday, when she reaches towards her saddlebags for something to eat and realizes she hasn’t even tied them on. She’s brought nothing with her – no food, no armor, no weapons except her knife – and she’s still got about a day’s travel until she reaches Camp Jaha. And what, exactly, does she intend to do when she gets there? Stand at the gates and yell until Clarke comes out? She’s been banned from the camp by Abby Griffin and she knows the fence is electrified, and while she thinks she could probably find a way around it given enough time, it’s broad daylight and she will be seen. Does she really want to cause a diplomatic incident through sheer stupidity?

Lexa draws up Gona’s reins to slow, and then stop. This was foolish and undeserving of her title as Commander. She knows she can’t go on but she doesn’t want to go back either. Mostly she just wants to fade away into the woods and never return.

She dawdles on her way back, delaying the inevitable polite recriminations and reminders of responsibility, and Indra’s kindhearted attempts to involve her in something trivial yet time-consuming so she cannot cause too much trouble and can be kept under someone’s watch. By the time she reaches Tondc she’s in a fog of self-loathing so deep it feels like she can barely hold her head up under it. She has no business going off half-cocked like this; she’s the Commander. What if a wild beast had attacked her, or the Ice Nation had finally sent an assassin like she knows they’ve been itching to do for years? If she had died out in the woods, with no one to see or hear until they find her bones, it might have thrown the Coalition into chaos, the clans into civil war…and then what would have become of the Sky People?

She tortures herself with these thoughts as she rides into camp, awaiting and dreading the onslaught of her minders with questions about where she’s been, what she’s been doing, was she hurt? And yet, as she continues through the tent city that has grown up around the ruins of Tondc, humming busily with tired workers preparing the evening meal, no one even acknowledges her except a swarm of children – when had those arrived? – who dash up to touch Gona’s mane for luck and then just as quickly dash off again to whatever games they’ve been playing. She feels herself slowly relax as she reaches her tent, and realizes just how exhausted she is. At this point she almost wants someone to acknowledge her, at least to ask if she’s hungry.

She strips down to a sleeveless shirt and cut-off trousers – not the kind of thing she usually lets her people see her in, but the summer is breathing out one last, muggy breath in the dusk and she’s been sweating heavily all day – and pours water over her face and shoulders. As she’s tying back her hair and trying to consider what she’s going to do about food, Indra knocks on a tentpole to announce herself and walks in, carrying a plate. Lexa blinks at the incongruity of it. Indra’s one of her best, most trustworthy generals, and has spearheaded many successful campaigns. In all the time that Lexa has known her, she has _never_ brought her dinner.

Indra walks to the table and sets down the food like she does this every evening. “Did your inspection of the western road go well today, Heda?” she says very casually, and Lexa stiffens. Indra gives her a bland smile. “I hope all lies well. We do regularly send a patrol out on that route but I know that it is best never to be too careful. You set us all an example with your diligence to your duties.”

By the time Indra is done, Lexa’s face is flaming, and she’s grateful for the cover of dusk to hide it. The general’s look is sharp, however, and she’s very sure that Indra knows exactly what she’s doing – she did train Anya, after all. Lexa hasn’t gotten such a dressing-down since she had been Anya’s second and a very raw one at that, and somehow Indra’s soft words sting just as badly as any thrashing her mentor had given her.

“Yes,” she finally croaks, “all lies well.”

"This is good," Indra says, and then clasps her hands behind her back. "Is there anything else you require tonight, Heda?”

“No, Indra, that will be all. I will be retiring for the evening.”

Indra nods and turns to go. Lexa can’t help herself: “Who was it? Who did you have tailing me?”

Indra doesn’t bother to turn, merely tosses her reply over her shoulder: “You may command me, Heda, but never in any of your lives have you been able to outfox me.”

As soon as Indra's out of earshot, Lexa lets loose a string of low, angry curses. This is all Clarke Griffin’s fault. She’d met the girl less than a month ago and she’s already turned Lexa into a fool. If she keeps going this way she’ll lose the trust of her generals, the trust of her people, and without that trust she is nothing. She is not a Commander.

* * *

 

The memory comes to her as they often do, dusk creeping across the tent and making it seem vast, and her small. She had been fifteen and so in love with Costia that it felt like the world was too small to contain her heart. They had skipped their respective lessons – swordplay for Lexa, healing for Costia – to spend a day in the market in Polis. Lexa had earned her first kill scar nearly a year ago, and the weight of expectation had begun to truly sink in and settle heavily on her shoulders, like armor she couldn’t take off. Anya was beginning to include her in councils, to request her advice in strategy and planning and give her opinions on news from the far reaches of her lands. The ease with which all of this came to her thrilled her, in part, making her truly believe that she had inherited the spirit of the Commander – but it terrified her, too, because she could see all too clearly the life awaiting her. There were days she just wanted to forget, to pretend they were merely two girls in love, waiting to grow up and be absolutely no one but who they were. And Costia understood – she knew that being a healer meant being surrounded by pain and death she could not prevent, could only attempt to forestall. There were days she wanted to forget too.

So they had slipped away early in the morning, trying not to giggle too loudly. They had been there when the market first opened, and had spent most of their money on enough sweet things to make themselves sick. Costia bought Lexa every flower that caught her eye; Lexa purchased an entire cage of birds, just to let them fly free. They had both put shawls over their heads to hide themselves, as the young Commander was well known in the city and as was the gentle healer who was nearly always by her side. But the day was hot, the first breath of summer floating over to them on the sea breeze, and the wind picked up as they walked along the pier. The breeze lifted the cloths away and they chased them, laughing, but gave up after a few moments to sit and dangle their feet in the water. It felt like they were drunk on the day and on being young and on one another.

But eventually Lexa was recognized, and people swarmed around her, pressing gifts on her, asking her blessing on their homes and children, offering her babies to name. Lexa was enjoying it, consulting very seriously with Costia on what to name a baby boy with exceptionally curly hair, when a hand landed heavy on her shoulder. “Seken _,”_ Anya growled from behind her. _Second_. It put Lexa directly in her place. Swallowing hard, she turned and raised her chin to her mentor.

“Sha _,_ Fos _,”_ she replied formally. She felt Costia’s hand squeeze hers.

“Go to your quarters and remain there. Speak to no one. You will meet me at the training ground at sunset _,”_ Anya said in Trigedasleng.

 _“_ Sha _,_ Fos _,”_ Lexa said, her cheeks burning, then turned to Kostia with a pleading look. “Beja –”

“Gyon au!” Anya barked, giving Lexa a hard shove. Lexa nearly whirled and snarled at her – she couldn’t stand for anyone to see her being disciplined like this, and Anya knew it, but she also knew that that was not a battle she was ready to fight yet. One day soon she would challenge Anya and earn her place as a warrior, as a leader, but right now Anya was her Fos and she had to listen.

She spent the rest of the day confined to her room in the large, empty Commander’s house, brooding on how quickly things had soured and wishing Anya a messy death. She considered slipping out – the door wasn’t locked - and running away with Costia into the hills, but she knew Anya would catch her eventually and it would only make things harder for herself. And her people needed her.

By the time someone arrived to bring her dinner, she was pacing and desperate to speak to someone, but the man only bowed his head and murmured “Heda” before he left, making Lexa almost throw the plate against the wall in frustration. When the sun began to lower, she made her way to the training ground through the mostly deserted streets, cursing her mentor under her breath. She was sure this would be another of the miserable punishments Anya seemed to love to devise – what would it be this time? A ten-mile hike through tangled forest? Keeping watch from the top of a tree until the sun rose, and a cuff for every time her eyes slipped shut? Balancing on one leg on a pier until she fell in the harbor? By the time she rounded the stables and saw Anya sitting on a fencepost near the training ring, she was spoiling for a fight.

But Anya didn’t begin dressing her down, as she expected, or start laying out the details of a hellish mission. Instead, she patted the fencepost beside her and said, “Set yu daun, Seken.” Warily, Lexa obeyed.

“Raun Gonasleng,” Anya said, and Lexa sighed heavily. She’d gotten much better lately, but Gonasleng had always been tricky for her. But wasn’t about to buck Anya’s authority – she was still fairly certain a punishment was imminent.

“Leksa, _you know it’s getting nearer to the time when you will take full command of our people.”_

“Sha –” she said before she could stop herself, and then, “ _Yes_ , Onya.”

“ _They know it too. They recognized you easily today, and_ Kostia. _Yes?”_

 _“Yes,”_ Lexa said, momentarily cheered by the memory of her people crowding around her, their excitement and joy to see her apparent. Her smile dropped away when she saw the solemnity that still clouded her mentor’s face.

“ _Your people love you,_ Leksa, _but not all people do. The leaders of the other clans have followed your progress from afar, and while many of them are pleased and proud to have you as an ally, others worry. They are frightened of your skill as a warrior and your quickness in strategy. They fear what you may do when you are older, when you have grown.”_

Lexa gaped openly at her mentor until Anya barked at her to shut her mouth before something flew into it. She couldn't keep herself from staring, though. She could count the number of times Anya had said something positive about her abilities on one hand. Usually it was more to the tune of _You won that bout but you could have won it much sooner, if only you had swept his leg when he was off balance_ or _You got through that match but you took too many losses. These are playing pieces now,_ Leksa, _but when you take command they will be people._ Anya had been an unapologetic perfectionist – when Lexa complained about it once to Gustus, her _otashil,_ he had said, “Yes. And that is why she is the best. She learned it from her mentor, Indra – a great general of one of the mountain villages – and she’s passing it on to you. It is what you need – a Commander cannot be anything but perfect.”

And yet here was Anya, admitting that Lexa wasn’t terrible. For her, that might as well have been a parade and formal salute. But unsurprisingly, her mentor didn't dwell on it for long. “ _When you take command, you will not be able to slip away and dally with_ Kostia _as you did today; your duties will be far too important. You will not be able to spend nearly as much time with her in general…and perhaps that is for the best.”_

Lexa stared at her mentor in horror. Training and practicing for her future life was hard enough; to have to do it without Costia was asking the impossible. She was about to say so, but Anya hurried to go on. “ _Your life will also be in far more danger. You will have me to defend you, and_ Gostos _, and many others besides, but there are many who will look for other ways to hurt you. They will look for your weaknesses, and that is where they will strike.”_

“Hodnes laik kwelnes,” Lexa said before she could stop herself, but Anya didn't reprimand her for the slip, only nodded.

“ _It might be safer for_ Kostia _when the time comes if she were not to be seen with you so often, but even so – you will have eyes on you at all times.”_

“The eyes of the forest are on the Commander,” Lexa repeated bitterly, picking at a rusted nail in the fencepost.

 _"Exactly,"_ Anya said. _“It may be that the only way for her to truly be safe is if she were to be parted from you.”_

Lexa’s eyes snapped up to stare at her mentor in horror. “ _I could never do that!”_ fell out of her mouth before she could shut it. Anya smiled sadly.

_“Then you put the person you love in danger.”_

Lexa shook her head vigorously. She tried to speak in English, but the heat of emotion in her chest made her grasp of the language slip. “Nowe! _I will make her my_ houmon _and no one will dare to touch her!”_

Anya looked at her seriously. “Leksa, _you can’t be talking like that. You know that your people must always come first, and that you will be expected to make alliances that benefit your people. No one will ever ask you to take someone you cannot stand, but you are far too young and you do not have enough of the trust of your people to marry purely for love. You and I both know that_ Kostia _is wonderful –”_

“ _The best!_ ” Lexa interrupted, making Anya glare.

“ _-and she may one day become a great healer, but right now she is unknown, her family is not rich, and she can bring us no alliance ties with other clans. Do you remember what I always tell you?”_

“Better a horse face than a horse’s ass?”

_“No, the other thing.”_

“Don’t stick around until the sunrise unless you want her mother to stab you?”

 _“_ Shof op. _Now you’re being dumb on purpose.”_

Lexa grinned, but it faded quickly as she remembered. “The Commander belongs to the people. Without their loyalty and trust, she is no Commander.” She frowned, firming her resolve. “ _Fine, then! I will do whatever it takes – I will become the greatest Commander that ever was, and I will win every battle and earn their trust and respect so that I may marry_ Kostia! _But I will always,_ always _keep her safe!”_

Anya smiled sadly. “ _For both of your sakes, I hope you can keep that oath,_ Heda.”

The sun had gone, and they both returned to the Commander’s home. Costia and her mother were there – Costia looking mutinous, as her mother had marched her down there specifically to apologize to Anya, and to the young Commander for disrupting her training, though that last was a punishment for Lexa – she had to sit there and squirm all the way through, knowing very well that it had been at least half her idea. She listened with her head bowed as Costia’s mother berated them both, but out of the corner of her eye caught Costia’s small grin. She couldn't bring herself to return it, though; she felt too heavy with the burden of what she’d heard, of what she’d face, of what she’d resolved to do. She _would_ become strong enough that love wouldn't be a weakness; she would do whatever it took to lead her people _and_ keep Costia. But the weight of the future had never felt so heavy on her shoulders as it did then.

* * *

Lexa rides this memory into sleep and wakes with her face wet. She scrubs it dry with the edge of her blanket, thinking bitterly about that oath. She hadn’t been able to keep it, had she? Ultimately she had learned the truth that Anya had been trying to teach her: she can’t protect anyone. She’s put an end to the threat of Mount Weather; has united the Twelve Clans after decades of war; she has saved her people. But she cannot protect any one person; she could not protect Costia and she cannot protect Clarke.

The solution is clear, then: she needs to get Clarke out of her head. Clarke scares her, and excites her, and makes her head spin, and she can’t have that. She’s spent far too long fighting for the equilibrium she’s reached to throw it all away over golden hair and a pretty face (and a brilliant tactical mind, and a truly spectacular ass, her brain inserts before she can shut it down). An echo runs through her head:

_Together, then?_

_Together._

But Clarke’s not here, and Lexa’s terrified and alone, and as always her fear turns to a slow, steady anger glowing to life like a coal inside her chest. It infuriates her that Clarke Griffin has managed to storm into her heart like a one-woman army and turn her head completely. She wants to trust Clarke, to believe that she can feel this way and still be the commander her people need, but her courage fails her. She hates herself for it, but she knows what’s safer – to turn away from Clarke, and turn the Sky Girl away from herself as well.

She can’t put a precise name to how deep she’s in with Clarke; she knows it’s deep, but not inevitably so. Now is the time to extract herself, though. If there’s one thing that’s proven constant in Lexa’s life – in _all_ of her lives – it’s that one way or another, _wor ste komba raun_. She cannot repeat the mistake she'd made with Costia, not again. _I’m sorry, Clarke_ , she thinks to herself as she washes her face and dresses for the day. _But I must make this choice with my head, not my heart. The duty to my people comes first._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, in case anybody wondered: during the sequence with Lexa and Anya, the words were italicized when they were speaking in English/Gonasleng to emphasize that this is a foreign, or at least secondary, language for them. When words are not italicized but also not in Trigedasleng, that means it’s some kind of quotation or saying, like "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." Chapter title is from "I Miss You," blink-182
> 
> Trigedasleng: 
> 
> *means I've made stuff up. 
> 
> Em laik bro kom Gostos: He is Gustus's brother. 
> 
> Seken: Second, a warrior's apprentice
> 
> Fos: first
> 
> Beja: please
> 
> Gyon au: go now
> 
> Raun Gonasleng: in English
> 
> Set yu daun: technically it means “get down,” as in before they see us, but I got lazy with this one, so.
> 
> Shof op: be quiet
> 
> *otashil – sworn shield. In my headcanon, Gustus was someone sworn to protect the baby Commander and advise her after she officially took command. 
> 
> Hodnes laik kwelnes: love is weakness
> 
> Nowe: never
> 
> Houmon: husband/wife (wife in this context, but gender-neutral overall)
> 
> The eyes of the forest are on the Commander: This isn’t said in Trigedasleng, but I came up with it as a saying to mean that the Commander is always being watched by the Tree Clan, both as an example of correct behavior or to be made an example of. 
> 
> Wor ste komba raun: War is coming


	11. Forgetting to forget that you're not mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Skaikru and the Trikru meet again after two weeks apart, and Abby's kind of a jerk, Clarke is kind of a child, and Lexa is kind of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the great response to the last chapter! Sorry it took so long... There's like, feelings and stuff in the next two chapters and for whatever reason it was really hard to write. It also doesn't help that STUPID BABIES ARE STUPID but I promise there will be a good resolution in the coming chapters. 
> 
> Also, to address the concerns of some people (galpalkru), I agree, Abby is kind of being a sanctimonious asshole. To me that rings true to her characterization, but I also agree that she's not JUST a sanctimonious asshole - she's an overprotective concerned parent and she's extremely worried that her daughter's going to wind up hurt or dead or doing something she can't ever forgive herself for (a genuine, actual concern). And I also think that Clarke's being enough of a bratty teenager that they kind of balance each other out. I will tell you this: they're gonna have it out eventually, and wind up being the better for it. And Abby will get her own chance for redemption before the end.
> 
> Besides that, I'm just super not sure about this one, so I'd really appreciate your comments on it. Kthxbye
> 
> Notes on Trigedasleng at the end, as always.

They had agreed that they would meet in the field outside of Camp Jaha in two weeks’ time, but they had never decided on what _time_ that meeting would take place, Clarke realizes as the noise of warhorns ringing from the woods blasts her awake shortly before dawn. Clarke looks out the window and spends the next thirty seconds calling Lexa every foul name she knows and a few she makes up, and then rolls out of bed and reaches for her clothes. They’re laying out on a chair, the least blood- and dirt-stained ones she has; the rest have been packed for three days. When Raven last came by her room to tell her the second airlock was ready for testing, she raised her eyebrows at the bag and opened her mouth, but Clarke’s expression promised pain and death if she said anything and she shut it again right away.

By the time she’s managed to dress, splash some water on her face, and put her hair in some semblance of order (she finds herself sorely missing Lexa’s braids, but she has no idea how to go about putting them in herself), the warhorns have sounded twice more – closer each time – and the entire camp is in an uproar. Abby has emerged from the medical wing for the second time in the last two weeks and is snapping orders, telling everyone to stop panicking and get ready, but there are still a large cohort running around with their heads cut off. To Clarke’s relief, her fifteen are not among them, instead standing with bags packed and weapons at the ready. Octavia looks eager, Lincoln looks wary, and Bellamy looks ready for a fight. They’re not the ones she’s worried about, though.

The rest of the guards have joined the ones on duty at the gate and formed up into a ragged line, weapons at standby. Clarke hustles over to them, shouting, “Stand down, they’re not here to attack us! Stand _down!”_ A moment later she winces as she hears her mother’s voice echo hers. That was definitely the wrong foot to start off on. Tired dread coils in her gut as she turns to face her Abby, who looks sleepily murderous.

“What the hell is this?” she hisses when she reaches Clarke. “What does she think she’s doing? Did you plan this?”

Clarke shakes her head. “Hell no. And if I had her here I’d slap her. This was all Lexa, Mom. But we’re ready, aren’t we?”

“Barely,” Abby says tightly as Marcus Kane strides up to join them, rubbing his face. “Did you finish the final preparations?”

“Yesterday,” Kane says through a yawn. “The stage has been built, and the provisions are ready to go. I hope they don’t expect us to have food for them, though.”

Abby snorts. “If they were going to wake us up this early, the least they could have done was brought breakfast.”

Kane shrugs, attempting a conciliatory tone. “My guess is that they just wanted to get an early start back to Tondc. It’s entirely possible that the Commander means no disrespect.”

Clarke barks out a humorless laugh. “It’s _Lexa_. She doesn’t do anything without considering all of the possible implications first. She _definitely_ means disrespect.”

Abby opens her mouth, possibly to ask Clarke just how she knows this, but a final blast of warhorns rings out across the field and riders begin to emerge from the trees. Clarke picks out Lexa immediately by her red sash and face paint, and any hope of a cheerful, pleasant reunion disappears. The Commander is dressed for war and so are her warriors. They’re not a full complement, but there are definitely more of them than there need to be to escort their Heda and her _shiljus_ thirty kilometers to an ally’s encampment. _You totally planned this, asshole_ , Clarke says to Lexa in her head, attempting to glare a hole through the Commander’s forehead as she nears.

The closer the riders get, the tenser the guards grow, their hands flexing on their rifles and fingers twitching towards the triggers. The muttering of the crowd behind them grows louder, and someone lets out a quiet scream. “Shut up,” Abby snaps, whirling around to glare at the offender, but the noise isn’t repeated. Finally, however, the horses come to a stop at the edge of the platform, within bowshot of the camp. Clarke sucks in a breath and feels like everyone in Camp Jaha is doing the same. She focuses her eyes on Lexa’s face, but it doesn’t tell her much – it’s impassive beneath its paint as she sits tall and proud and silent on her horse, eyes on the gate.

After a tense minute or two, Abby’s voice cracks out like a whip, breaking the silence: “Open the gate.” There's some reluctant muttering, as though some of the guards are questioning whether or not that’s wise, but Captain Miller repeats Abby’s order in a sharp bark and his squad snaps to. After a few moments, the gate to Camp Jaha creaks open, and Kane, Abby, Clarke, and her fifteen step out into the meadow to greet the Grounders.

As they near, Lexa raises her hand and says something Clarke can’t make out, and her warriors dismount. Only after they’ve all hit the ground does Lexa follow suit; by that time they’re near enough to converse. Lexa’s eyes rove over the assembled Ark group, haughty like they had been the first time they’d come face to face, when she’d been sitting on her throne and surrounded by an army preparing to obliterate the Arkers. Clarke glares when Lexa’s eyes meet hers, and is gratified to see the Commander glance away momentarily before she says formally, “Well met, Chancellor of the Sky People. Well met, Marcus Kane and Clarke.”

“Well met,” the three of them respond more or less in unison.

“Shall we begin?” Lexa says, turning towards the platform. “I assume this is where you’d like the ceremony to take place.”

“Yes,” Abby says, taking the lead. She steps forward and offers Lexa a piece of paper with about a paragraph of writing on it. Clarke frowns. This was not something they’d discussed.

Lexa takes the paper slowly, looking uncertain. “I’m assuming you can read?” Abby says rudely, and Lexa’s eyes shoot back to meet hers in a glare.

“ _Mom!”_ Clarke hisses, mortified, but Kane’s hand on her shoulder keeps her from going on. After a moment spent struggling to quell her urge to kill Clarke’s mother, Lexa nods.

“Good,” Abby continues. “Then you can read that to our people, I’ll introduce Clarke, and we’ll both confirm her appointment as Ambassador. We can have some breakfast after that, but due to the fact that it’s the _crack of dawn_ it’s not yet prepared, so you’ll have to wait a while.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lexa says, her words like chips of ice. “We brought provisions and we will eat on the return trip. We also brought horses you may borrow to make the journey swifter. The people of Tondc are expecting us back by nightfall; _they_ will have a feast prepared.”

Clarke wants to shout at both of them to stop the verbal fencing and just get this over with, but she knows it’ll only make matters worse. She follows her mother and Kane up the set of steps on the right side of the platform, and after a moment Lexa, Indra, and Ryder accompany their Heda up the stairs to the left. Clarke finds that she’s standing taller than Lexa and is confused for a moment before she realizes that the platform’s been built on a subtle incline. Lexa seems to have realized this too and shoots Clarke a look as Abby and Kane move into position. Behind her mother’s back, Clarke rolls her eyes.

Once they’ve realized that a skirmish isn’t imminent, the people of Camp Jaha have started to filter out the gates and into the field. They don’t get very close to the Grounders and not everyone comes, but there are enough of them to make the horses shift nervously and the riders remaining below clench and unclench their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Clarke and her mother look tense as they survey the assembled Skaikru and Lexa’s warriors, but Lexa just lifts her chin and puts on the regal air she reserves for these occasions. She’s leaving it up to Abby Griffin to not make this a sham.

“We welcome the Commander of the Trigedakru,” the Chancellor says, and Lexa notices approvingly that she only stumbles a little bit over the word. Someone’s been coaching her. “We have several announcements to make. First, the Commander will say a few words.”

Lexa lets her eyes drop to the page Abby Griffin handed her. It’s not much – only a few sentences – but what she sees makes her blood boil _._ The hand that holds the _branwada_ is shaking with anger. Lexa considers crumpling it up in her fist, but refrains. She knows that Abby Griffin will realize immediately if she changes anything, and yet the thought of saying these things in front of her people and Clarke’s is abhorrent. She swallows hard, what she’s about to say bitter on her tongue. Taking a deep breath and clenching her other hand on the hilt of her sword to calm herself, she begins.

 _“I acknowledge Abby Griffin as Chancellor of the people of Camp Jaha, whom my people call the Skaikru,”_ Lexa reads, her tone wooden. _“I and my people will treat her as the head of a sovereign nation until such time as elections may be held and another Chancellor is elected. We will uphold the alliance we have made with the people of Camp Jaha as a fellow sovereign nation, and neither offer them threat nor take them captive lest the alliance be severed.”_

There’s low rumbling from the crowd below. Indra hisses at her people to be quiet and they settle, but the Skaikru continue to murmur. Eventually, however, a few scattered claps turn into a smattering of uncertain applause. Though her people do not express approval the same way, Lexa is not unfamiliar with the gesture, and she nods, acknowledging it as though she’s not fantasizing about slaughtering every one of them. When they’ve quieted, she turns back to Abby Griffin, who’s grinning a slightly terrifying smile at her and reaching out her hand to shake. Lexa can’t resist – she responds in the Grounder fashion, clasping the Chancellor at the forearm and pulling her close so that their shoulders touch. She keeps her face blank and impassive as Abby staggers back a little bit, but inside she’s grinning at having gotten some of her own back.

When Abby’s recovered, she turns back to the assembly and says, “Thank you for those kind words, Commander. We also have another announcement. In order to preserve and maintain the relationship between the people of Camp Jaha and the Tree Clan, as well as the people of the ground at large, we will be appointing an Ambassador. The Ambassador will carry the concerns of the Ark to the leaders of the Twelve Clans, and will communicate the will of those leaders to the Chancellor of the Ark. I would like to introduce my daughter, Clarke Griffin, as the first Ambassador of the Ark.”

Clarke steps forward, a grin frozen on her face that reminds Lexa of something she had once read, that among primates smiling was used to convey fear. There’s another burst of applause, much louder and fuller this time than it had been for Lexa, but there’s still plenty of murmuring under it. After it dies down, Abby continues, “Today I will be traveling with a delegation to the village of Tondc, where the Ambassador will be in residence for the next two weeks in conference with the Commander. I would like to invite any who are interested in assisting with the village’s recovery efforts to join us in our journey.”

It’s not really an invitation, Clarke knows; Kane put out the announcement a week ago, and a surprising number of volunteers stepped forward – most of them among the 47, who have the most goodwill towards the Grounders for helping to free them from Mount Weather. It hadn’t hurt, of course, that Clarke had dropped hints about there being a Grounder party awaiting them; she’s fairly certain that Monty is planning on smuggling his rebuilt still along with them on the trip.

Abby and Lexa have a few more viciously polite exchanges, and then Abby shuts down the conference somewhat abruptly by stepping off the platform. After a moment, Clarke and Lexa follow. Clarke tries to get a read on what Lexa’s thinking, but her mask is in place and Clarke makes a mental note never to introduce her to poker. That being said, Lexa is studiously avoiding her eyes, and that by itself tells her quite a lot.

They make their way over to the warriors below. There’s a string of riderless horses tethered together, and after a tense exchange of Trigedasleng between Lincoln and Indra it comes out that they’re intended for Clarke’s chosen _shiljus_. The Sky contingent moves forward to tentatively stand opposite the Grounder warriors, and they eye each other nervously. The moment is fraught, but Kyro’s the first to break it: when Bellamy reaches out to take the reins that he holds, the Grounder warrior clasps his forearm and greets him in the Trigedakru fashion. “We have fought a war together, and we are soon to be brothers in blood,” he grunts. “Let us not stand on ceremony.”

Bellamy looks a bit grumpy at being handled so abruptly, but after a few moments his jaw stops working and he nods. Taking their cues from the two, the rest of the Skaikru greet their Trikru counterparts in the same manner. Lexa observes the exchange approvingly from Gona’s side, a few feet away; she doesn’t notice that Clarke has stepped up behind her until the Sky Girl – now _Amba kom Skaikru_ – softly says, “Hey.”

Lexa jumps about a foot in the air and now Clarke _knows_ she’s feeling guilty about something. Maybe it’s the childishness of waking them up so early in the morning, or the tension of her exchange with Abby, but Clarke would bet anything it’s something else. Lexa doesn’t get jumpy very easily, and Clarke doesn’t delude herself it’s on account of her proximity.

That _is_ a part of it for Lexa, though she tries her best to hide it as she turns to face the Sky Girl, trying to maintain the sort of cold resolve that has proven useful to her in the past for facing her enemies. She’s managed to ignore that she’s been preparing herself for her reunion with Clarke – _with the Sky People_ , she mentally corrects herself sternly – as though it were a negotiation with a hostile nation, or a ritual duel with an enemy champion. She’s donned her armor and warpaint and has made herself ready for battle.

What she hasn’t made herself ready for, however, is hearing the quiet voice and seeing the face that’s haunted her mind for the past two weeks without pause. The curt words she’s prepared get stuck in her throat, and the moment drags on; Clarke’s eyebrows rise. Finally Lexa manages to croak, “Well met, Clarke of the Sky People.” Clarke turns away to swallow a grin.

Her grin dies quickly as they stare at each other and the silence stretches. Clarke feels her heart sink as she contrasts the awkwardness of this meeting with how things had been before they’d parted: Lexa teasing her, kissing her, grudgingly allowing Clarke to tickle her, and holding her for the one night of decent sleep she can remember in the recent months. And now Lexa’s stammering – adorably, but still – and her eyes can only meet Clarke’s for a moment before they skate away to rove over her clothing, her boots, her fingers fidgeting with her horse’s reins. Clarke’s about to remark on the change in her demeanor when all of a sudden Lexa snaps to. Her shoulders straighten, her jaw firms, and her chin lifts as she meets Clarke’s gaze.

“We should begin our journey to Tondc, Clarke,” Lexa says, remembering herself and the decision she’s made. “If we are to reach the village by nightfall we cannot waste time.” Clarke looks as though she’s going to protest the classification of their reunion as _wasting time_ , but her mouth snaps shut and she nods sharply.

“Yes, _Commander_ , I agree. I’ll inform the Chancellor right away.” Lexa hears Clarke’s subtle emphasis of her title, but chooses not to comment on it, only nods and watches Clarke step off stiffly in Abby’s direction. She doesn’t allow herself to dwell on the way her heart sinks at the ice in Clarke’s voice. She’d set that tone herself, after all.

After a few minutes of what looks like hushed arguing, Lexa sees Abby nod shortly and Clarke starts stalking her way back towards Lexa, her face like the sun peering through a thundercloud – _shof op, dumas,_ Lexa tells herself sharply, and forces herself to calm down. When Clarke nods shortly in her direction, Lexa ignores her lack of deference and unties the mare’s reins from where they’ve been wrapped around Gona’s saddlehorn. She hands them to Clarke and stops herself just before she can reach out to present the stirrup. She doesn’t know how the Skaikru would see the gesture, but she knows how her people would take it.

Shuddering briefly at the near miss, she makes sure that Abby and Kane have been given horses, and then she climbs onto Gona’s back, shouting the order to _“Masta ai op!”_ The Sky People look confused, but as they see Lexa’s warriors swing aboard their horses nearly in unison (Lexa’s pleased – she’d schooled them obsessively in doing that, citing the need to make an impression), they get the idea and start to clumsily follow suit. Lexa, Clarke, and their thirty, as well as the Skaikru delegation, will be making all possible haste to Tondc for the ceremonies; wagons have been provided for the Skaikru volunteers, who will be accompanied by the remainder of Lexa’s guard. After exchanging a few words with Delo, who will be taking command of the rearguard, Lexa waves her arm in the direction of the woods and the company begins to move out.

Despite Kyro’s attempts at icebreaking, they ride largely in a tense silence. Lexa feels the forest looming over her oppressively in the cloudy morning where it usually feels like something protective, something vast and sheltering that she can lose herself in, body and mind. _That would be the influence of the Skaikru_ , she tells herself, but she can’t quite make herself believe it. She’s riding alone at the head of the line, but she can feel Clarke’s eyes on a spot between her shoulderblades and spends most of the time keeping herself from turning around to meet the Skygirl’s gaze.

They stop – more of a pause, really, Clarke thinks grumpily – around midday to have a hurried lunch. Lexa lets everyone know that there’s food in their saddlebags – something, Bellamy mutters darkly, that would have been nice to know about four hours ago – and at her command, the Trikru fifteen dismount and begin to pull out food. After a moment to process the order, the Sky People follow suit, groaning gratefully as they clamber off of their horses and enjoy the feeling of not being in a saddle. Clarke at last manages to catch Lexa’s eye, but the Commander only gives her the blandest of looks, almost as though she’s seeing through her. The thought makes her seethe and she stalks over to Octavia, who, on account of her still-healing leg, has been coaxed to sit on the ground by Lincoln and Bellamy. “She’s being an ass,” Clarke growls in a low voice.

Bellamy can’t resist. “Well, yeah, what did you expect?”

Clarke runs a hand through her hair in frustration. “I don’t know – something else! But whatever. I need you two to translate for us, or she’s going to make us look like idiots who get caught with our pants down. And we all need to learn Trigedasleng, stat.”

“Yes sir Ambassador Griffin, sir!” Octavia says, mock-saluting, but sobers when Clarke turns her glare on her. “Hey, easy, Princess. You’re right. Any idea _why_ Commander Heart Eyes has decided to be even more of a dick than usual? I thought she kind of had a thing for you.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, turning to look over her shoulder at Lexa, who’s adjusting her horse’s girth, and she can’t quite keep the wistfulness out of her tone. “Me too.”

* * *

 

Lexa has them mount back up in short order; when several of the Sky People complain that they haven’t had a chance to finish eating, Clarke barks that they can eat as they ride and repeats Lexa’s command in English. The Grounders set a punishing pace – fast walking punctuated by bouts of trotting, which none of the Sky People have really had time to master. Clarke begins to feel like the saddle is a knife that is slowly cutting her in half, but she grimly bumps through each portion of the trot and hangs on as best as she can.

The sun is streaming into their eyes as they turn off the main road and onto the path to Tondc. The steady glare manages at first to obscure the majority of the devastation, but when Clarke puts her hand to her forehead to shade her eyes what she sees makes her suck in a breath. In two weeks, the Grounders have only just managed to clear away the rubble and start putting up rudimentary foundations for new buildings; the biggest project that remains is going to be trying to fill in the crater with something useful, or level out the ground so it can be built upon. It’s either that or work to clear more of the surrounding forest – but either way, it’s going to be a hell of a job. Guilt floods her as she catches sight of the tent city in which the survivors from the village have been living. This was her work. It had been necessary, maybe, to bring about the end of Mount Weather, but she wondered how long it would take to make this right, or if she ever could.

The village’s main street has been reconstituted into a narrow path along the crater the missile made. There’s a platform at its end, and the path appears to be strewn with flower petals, and there’s a small gathering of people waiting below. Before Clarke has time to observe much more, Lexa is giving the order to dismount and at that point she becomes preoccupied with keeping her legs from folding up under her. She’s going to have to get better at riding, she realizes, and then, watching as her fifteen have similar difficulties getting off their horses – Monroe actually does fall, and has to be helped up by Miller – thinks to herself, _We all will_. She thinks about how Lexa looks riding a horse – like one of those mythical creatures she’d read about as a kid, a human-horse hybrid called a centaur – and then makes herself distinctly _not_ think about it. She definitely shouldn’t be thinking about the way Lexa’s hips move, the confidence in her body and her hands as she directs the animal almost without thought – nope, those are definitely thoughts for later, maybe never.

The people in the crater look up, and shouts of “ _Heda! Mounin houm!”_ begin to echo from them. Lexa gives them a small smile and holds up her hand to quiet them, but they continue. The warmth of their welcome curdles in her chest when she thinks about how little she deserves it, how much she’s made them sacrifice to ensure their final victory, their safety. _It was worth it_ , she tries to tell herself, but can only partially make herself believe it. There are children here that she’d seen only weeks before running about and playing and tugging at her cloak to get her to look at some etching they’ve made, or beseeching her to accept a flower crown. There are far fewer of them now, and she’s seen some of the same ones dragging themselves about on crutches, or unable to walk at all. It makes her feel sick to see it, but she makes herself look anyway. _This is your work. It was done by your command._

But these are thoughts she cannot be having now. The village is waiting for her to address them. She turns to see Clarke standing by her mother and has to work hard, as she approaches, to shut down the other kind of thoughts she shouldn’t be having, about the way Clarke’s hair frames her face in the dying sunlight, a golden crown; the way she looks without cuts and bruises and blood and dirt all over her. She’d found Clarke beautiful when they’d all been tainted with war; she’s breathtaking when at peace. Lexa has to take several deep breaths before she can be reasonably certain that her voice will come out steady.

“As we did at Camp Jaha, we will announce the Ambassador and renew our alliance. Afterwards, there will be a feast.”

“Can the feast maybe happen now?” Clarke hears Bellamy mutter, and gives him a sharp look to quiet him. Her stomach growls, though, and she can’t say she disagrees with him – those nuts and berries feel like they’d been forever ago.

“Chancellor, are you ready?” Clarke’s mother blinks at Lexa’s words, and then seems to realize that the Commander means for her to walk by her side as they enter the village. Kane takes up a place behind her mother, and Clarke grits her teeth before standing behind Lexa. After hissing a quick order to Octavia to get the Grounders and the Sky People formed up in alternating fashion, she spends the rest of the time attempting to glare a hole through Lexa’s armor.

When Octavia whispers that it’s done (after a heated exchange in a hybrid of Trigedasleng and English), Clarke can’t help herself – she pokes Lexa in the back of the head and says, “Waiting on you, Commander.” Lexa whirls, looking like she would dearly love to kill Clarke, and Clarke approvingly notes the scandalized looks from her mother and Kane. She just smirks back at Lexa and raises an eyebrow as if to say, _Whatcha gonna do about it?_ But to her annoyance, Lexa gets control of herself and merely nods, drawing herself up regally and calling out, _“Masta ai op.”_

As they process into the crater, the Grounders call out various things in Trigedasleng; most of them are variations on _Heda_ and _Mounin houm_ but Clarke’s fairly certain not everything is complimentary. They ascend the platform and Lexa begins to speak in Trigedasleng, presumably variations on the same things she’d said to the Sky People, though for all Clarke can tell it could be _Kill them before they can get to the feast or they’ll eat all the cake._ She really, _really_ needs to learn Trigedasleng.

It takes long enough that Clarke’s mind has time to go exactly where she doesn’t want it heading. Why is Lexa being like this? She hasn’t been this cold to Clarke since they first met. Or not cold, precisely, but empty. Clarke can’t quite find a word for the way Lexa’s behaving, until she hits upona memory, standing before a platform much like this one, in front of the ashes of a funeral pyre _._

_I recognized it for what it was: weakness._

_So you just stopped caring about everyone?_

A pause, and then a slow nod.

Clarke’s chest burns with the realization, in equal measures heartbroken and furious. _You coward,_ she thinks at Lexa’s back, wishing she could scream it in her face. But instead, she stands by the Commander as she announces Clarke’s position as Ambassador with a frozen smile and a leaden heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY ARE SO STUPID AND I CANNOT WITH THEM
> 
> I just...ugh. 
> 
> Chapter title is from "Anytime," Eve 6
> 
> Trigedasleng:
> 
> *means I've made stuff up
> 
> Shof op: be quiet
> 
> *dumas: idiot (from dumbass)
> 
> Masta ai op: Follow me/form up on me. 
> 
> Mounin houm: Welcome home.
> 
> P.S... Rating is going up in Chapter 13 ;)


	12. I belong to the hurricane (it's gonna blow this all away)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which pretense is stripped away, and the leader of the Trigedakru is forced to admit that she has a heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thaaaaaank you for reading and responding so beautifully to the last chapter! You all make my day, honestly. I know I've said that a bajillion times but that doesn't make it any less true. Well, our silly derpy babies are gonna finally get a kind of resolution, though because it's Clarke and Lexa it of course has to be dramatic as FUCK. Well, hope y'all enjoy. Let me know what you think about it in your comments!
> 
> Oh and I know I've said this before but the rating's going up in the next chapter ;) Chapter title is from "Hurricane Drunk," Florence + the Machine.
> 
> Trigedasleng at the end, as per usual.

The ceremony seems to drag on forever, but maybe that’s just because Clarke can’t understand a word that’s being said except for _Klark_ and _Amba_ and _Skaikru_. Just when she’s beginning to suspect that Lexa’s drawing this out on purpose, she says something that sounds roughly like a dismissal. Everyone cheers, though not for long: Apparently the remaining villagers of Tondc are just as hungry as the Skaikru.

Clarke wants to grab Lexa and ask her what the fuck she thinks she’s doing, and maybe call her a few choice names she’s identified as best describing how much of a fucking coward and an asshole she’s being, but she doesn’t get the chance – Lexa steps off the platform and passes through the crowd of her people waiting below. They throng around her as she goes by, keeping a respectful distance but occasionally reaching out to touch her very gently, as if for luck. “ _Heda,”_ they murmur reverently as she goes by, like she’s some kind of god or saint. Clarke wonders exactly what Lexa had told them.

The rest of the Sky People and the Trikru warriors fall into step behind the Commander, but they’re quickly swallowed by the crowd of villagers as they swarm their way along the path to the feast grounds, a short walk through the woods on the far side of the camp. It’s been swept clean; benches and tables, newly made, are laid out in rows before the banquet table. Flowers strew the ground and are woven into chains that hang from poles surrounding the space; from the tops of the poles hang baskets filled with wood soaked in scented oils. At sundown, they’ll be lit to keep away the mosquitoes that tend to plague gatherings during the summer.

The banquet table groans heavily with the fruits of Lexa’s hunts; Tondc’s best cooks have done their best to improve the looks of the last of their produce reserves, but they look a bit sad next to the heaping platters of boar and deer and game birds. Lexa looks approvingly around the feasting ground as she makes her way to her place at the center of the high table. It’s a bit rustic, perhaps, but Tondc was never the most urbane place, even before the missile. Lexa had once been shocked that a general as exalted as Indra would accept the guardianship of such a place, but she has grown into an appreciation of its charms.

The Commander’s throne has pride of place at the center of the high table; grand chairs salvaged from various ruins flank it on either side, for the higher-ranking guests. The villagers seat themselves at the benches opposite the high table without hesitation, but the Skaikru hang back. Lexa finds herself somewhat regretting her decision to ignore Clarke for the duration of their journey. This will have to be done carefully, as those who are warriors typically do not speak Gonasleng among those who are not. It’s the language of war, and tonight is supposed to be a celebration of peace. And yet the tightness in Lexa’s chest as she mentally maps the feasting ground like it’s a battlefield is not peaceful. She wonders if there will ever be a time when she is not in some way at war.

She’s able to guide Abby Griffin by the elbow to the chair at her right; the Chancellor appears to be somewhat dazed, and Lexa is able to place her easily enough. When she attempts to do the same for Clarke her hand is, not surprisingly, shaken off with a snort, and the Ambassador flops into the chair at her left with crossed arms and a glower. Lexa knows she shouldn’t be finding the behavior _cute_ , but she has to swallow a grin as she looks for Octavia.

She’s standing awkwardly among the rest of the Skaikru warriors, though the look on her face is less bewildered than mulish. She is more aware than most, Lexa thinks, of the eyes on them, in large part because of Lincoln: he is still viewed by many as _natrona_ , a traitor, who chose the Sky People over his own. This is a battle she will have to fight at some point in the future, she knows, but now is not the time. So it’s Octavia she addresses in Trigedasleng, telling her to direct the warriors to be seated at a table to their left, perpendicular to their own. Octavia blinks for a moment at being addressed, but quickly moves to execute the order.

Soon everyone is standing in their appropriate places except for Clarke, which is a breach of protocol that Lexa’s going to have to correct – no one sits before the Commander. But they are among friends – no one will call for Clarke’s head here on account of it – and Lexa is more than willing to delay that fight until later. Besides, behavior that is unpardonable in a subordinate is merely rude coming from a leader, and she knows it’s going to take a lot more than a speech to make her people see Abby and not Clarke Griffin as Heda of the Skaikru.

But getting her people to recognize Abby is a process that will start today. Taking a jug of wine from the table before her, Lexa pours for herself and the Chancellor, then raises her cup and her eyebrows at Abby. Abby picks up the message and smoothly does the same. “To our truce, and to our alliance,” Lexa says, then repeats the words in Trigedasleng. “Long may they last.”

“Long may they last,” Abby says, and raises her cup to Lexa; both of them drink. And then the feast begins.

The squad leaders’ seconds serve them from the banquet table, offering them choice cuts of meat and spoonfuls from vegetable and fruit dishes. They present everything to Lexa first, with a few exceptions – she’s been to the village enough times that they know better than to offer her _kini_ squash or _botnot._ Once everyone at the high table has been served, the rest of Tondc rises to swarm the banquet. Lexa watches the startled Skaikru as they take in the ensuing chaos with a smile playing at the edges of her lips. Trikru feasts are something like a very large meal, which it was perhaps unkind of her not to explain in advance: those who are unwilling to jostle and shove for their place do not get fed, or at least not fed well. The injured and infirm are, of course, served separately, but the rest is a free-for-all. _Well_ , she thinks, _no quicker way to learn to swim than to get thrown in._ She’s pleased to see that after an initial hesitation, Octavia leads the Skaikru warriors into the fray.

Clarke starts with the wine and hits it hard, wishing that Monty were here with his still to make it harder. She all but hoards the jug, glaring so nastily at Kane when he holds out his hand for it that he withdraws it hastily, as if in fear of her biting it off. The drink tastes terrible to her, and she doesn’t know whether that’s because Grounders make shitty wine or because she just doesn’t like wine – she’s never had it before – but she’s decided that there’s no way she’s getting through the evening sober. _Besides, isn’t heavy drinking the cure for a broken heart?_ she thinks as she takes another liberal swig. That’s what all the books she’d read on the Ark had said. She chooses not to reflect on her mind’s choice of words.

Clarke only pauses to take large bites of meat. It’s the best that she’s ever tasted since falling from the Ark, and maybe the best in general – not that she’d ever admit that to the Grounders, but the freshly roasted boar and smoked venison are like nothing she’s ever tasted. She keeps one eye on the chaos of the banquet table, watching out for any hint of conflict – there’s a lot they still don’t know about the Trikru, and she knows it’s not unlikely that one of the Arkers might inadvertently commit some mortal offense and start a brawl. She keeps the other eye on Lexa. The Commander appears to be enjoying the spectacle, occasionally turning to Abby to make a comment that her mother answers stiffly in a way that does not seem to bother Lexa at all. She doesn’t look at Clarke once, and Clarke’s fury grows.

Lexa senses the growing thundercloud that is Clarke Griffin, but she chooses not to acknowledge it. If the Sky Girl wants to act like a child in public, that’s her business – unless she decides to make it Lexa’s. That appears to be the conclusion that Clarke has come to at the same time as she comes to the end of the jug of wine, because she tips it upside down conspicuously and sighs harshly at the couple of drops that trickle into her cup. Lexa gives her a sharp look, which seems to gratify her. It’s not particularly strong stuff – festival wine is weak by design, as drunkenness tends to lead to fighting – but Clarke has consumed a truly impressive quantity in an alarming amount of time.

“Aron, I believe the _Amba kom Skaikru_ is thirsty,” she says to one of the seconds as he passes. She doesn’t miss the startled look he gives Clarke, who is glaring at her so ferociously that if Clarke’s gaze had the power to kill, Lexa is sure she would drop dead on the spot. When Aron hesitates, the Commander narrows her eyes at him. “Is there a problem, _Seken?”_ she says sharply, and he stammers out, “No, Heda. Your pardon, Heda,” before skittering off to fetch another jug. Lexa turns her regard to Clarke.

“Perhaps you should slow down,” she says in a low voice.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be such an asshole,” Clarke hisses, also low. She knows she can’t be acting like this – she _knows_ – but she feels like there’s a hurricane in her chest. Her mom has been unapproachable and Lexa’s made it pretty clear that whatever was between them is not something she plans to pursue, and her friends are all the way over _there._ For the first time since her escape from Mount Weather, she feels like she’s caught in the jaws of a trap, one from which there’s no escape because it’s her life _._ “I need some air,” she mutters and shoves herself away from the table.

She stalks back up the path towards the village before realizing that that’s the last place she should be in the mood she’s in. As soon as she gets out of the woods she takes an abrupt left, passing behind one of the few buildings left standing after the missile. There’s a clearing in the trees through which the sun is blasting, and it gives her eyes a good excuse to tear up. She’s blinking through it and she misses the movement, and of course she walks too quietly for Clarke to hear because she’s a damn Grounder, isn’t she, like a fucking cat, something that Clarke had convinced herself was a human.

“Clarke.”

The soft voice makes her jump in its direction; her eyes are still watery (they’re not tears, they’re _not)_ but she doesn’t need to see to know who it is.

“ _What,”_ she snarls. It’s not a question.

“You cannot speak that way to me, not in public,” Lexa says, and her voice is low and harsh. Clarke finally manages to blink the last of the sunspots out of her eyes and glare balefully at Lexa.

“No? I can’t speak to you at all, can I? Because you’re the great and powerful Commander, and nobody gets to talk to you. Nobody gets _close_.”

Lexa’s jaw is clenched and working, her arms crossed over her chest. _Get mad, damn you_ , Clarke thinks, watching her struggle. _Yell at me. Fight back. Anything_. She wants to see some kind of a feeling from Lexa, some kind of proof that the heart she saw two weeks ago is still in there.

But Clarke can see the moment when Lexa masters herself, raising her chin and looking back at her with calm defiance.. “Are you finished?” she says, and her voice only shakes the barest amount.

“Not even close,” Clarke hisses. “What the hell is wrong with you? All it takes is two weeks, and everything we said to each other before, everything we _were_ to each other before, goes out the window?”

“And what exactly were we before, Clarke?” Lexa says, in that same infuriatingly calm tone of voice. All of the fight goes out of Clarke in a rush. She’s been fighting for as long as she’s been on the ground, and longer; she wants peace, and it had seemed like Lexa could give that to her, but it no longer seems to be in the cards. She’ll have to settle for an armistice.

“I wanted to find out,” Clarke says, and the quiet heartbreak in her tone makes Lexa ache, makes her resolve waver more than any shouting could. “I wanted to try. I told you I wasn’t ready before the battle but I realized while you were away that I am now. But it looks like you’re not.” She’s realizing it as she’s saying it, what the missing piece of her puzzle had been: Lexa. Or so she’d thought. Maybe that piece is just gone.

Every muscle in Lexa’s body is screaming at her to reach out to Clarke, to pull her into an embrace and tell her that she’s right and Lexa’s sorry, and weak, and a coward besides. But a voice that’s bone-deep stays her hand and says, sounding a lot like Anya and a little bit like Costia, _Wait. Don’t do this. You_ can’t _do this. Remember what happens to those you care for. Remember who you are and who you need to be. Remember that love is weakness and you cannot afford to be weak._ Lexa clenches her hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

“This isn’t…this was never going to work, Clarke,” Lexa says, dropping her voice an octave so the emotion in it is less noticeable. Clarke had been staring at the dirt near her boots, but her head snaps up at its huskiness and her eyes rove restlessly over the Commander’s face. Lexa wonders briefly what she sees there, but presses on before she can lose her nerve.

“I can’t be what both you and my people need,” she says softly. “What I feel for you may mean that I can’t make the right choices to protect them, and they must always come first. If I’m weak for you, how can I be strong for them?”

“So you _do_ feel something for me,” Clarke says, and her voice is so raw it makes Lexa take a step forward.

“I do,” Lexa says, her own voice thick. “Too much.” She clenches her jaw and swallows hard and forces her tears back into a tight ache under her temples. She hasn’t let any fall since she was sixteen, since Costia died. She thought she’d cried all the tears she had in her that day, but apparently there are still a few left for Clarke, for what they could have been. “I hope you can understand, Clarke, even if you can’t forgive me,” Lexa says, taking another step forward, her voice beseeching. But apparently this was the wrong thing to say – Clarke’s eyes narrow.

“Coward,” she hisses, making Lexa pull back. That’s not an accusation anyone’s ever leveled at her. Hotheaded, stubborn, and ruthless, maybe, but not coward. Yet Clarke means it.

“You say you care about me, Lexa, but you’re not even willing to _try._ You hide behind excuses about what your people need and you even try to make things work between us. What are you so afraid of? Tell me how this works, Lexa, because I don’t understand. You can unite the clans and defeat Mount Weather, but you can’t go _two weeks_ without losing your nerve and now you can’t even look at me? What are you so fucking afraid of, Lexa?” 

Lexa is looking at her now, though, and for once she’s not worrying about the future and the past, she’s not hearing the voices of her mentors saying _Love is weakness_ , and she’s not seeing Costia’s ghost. She only sees Clarke, bathed in sun and fury like a goddess of righteous wrath, and she’s the most beautiful thing Lexa’s seen in a very long time of war and blood and death. Clarke is not innocent of those things, not nearly, but something about her whispers to Lexa of a future beyond them.

She wants to tell Clarke what she sees but her voice is caught in her throat, and Clarke is still spitting vitriol, so instead she does quite possibly the most foolish thing she can think to do: she takes the final step to close the gap between them, reaches out, and kisses Clarke. She pushes past the fire and the anger and the fear that grips her heart, and concentrates only on the softness of Clarke’s lips, the way they taste of wine and make Lexa’s head spin. For years all she has wanted – all she has allowed herself to want – is what’s best for her people, what will keep them safe, what will bring them peace. Clarke is neither safe nor peaceful – and yet she is what Lexa wants. For just this moment, she lets herself.

Clarke’s left hand meets Lexa’s shoulder, fully intending to push her away, but instead finds itself tangling in the material of her shirt; her right comes up planning to slap her, but instead meets her cheek and slides along the smooth skin to cup the back of her head and draw her closer. She’s angry and she kisses Lexa like it’s a duel to the death, but she can’t say it wouldn’t be a pleasant one. This is how it is with Lexa, she thinks: she slips a knife between your ribs and kisses you goodbye.

But when they finally pull away, submitting to their need for breath, Clarke is astonished to see that the look in Lexa’s eyes is not goodbye. It’s pleading, soft, and more open than she’s ever seen the Commander, and there are damp trails running through the warpaint on her cheeks, streaking it further.

“I _can’t_ , Clarke,” Lexa begs, her hands balling into fists around the material of Clarke’s shirt.

“Why not?” Clarke nearly shouts. This is so stupid, so _dumb_ , and she _knows_ why Lexa _thinks_ she can’t but dammit, does being a leader truly have to mean giving up on love because it might be lost? Why lead, in that case? Why bother surviving if you can’t have what’s worth surviving for?

Lexa’s head drops to her chest and she takes half a step back, unable to meet Clarke’s eyes. Clarke follows, tries to lift her chin and make her, but the Commander turns her face away. “Why, Lexa?” Clarke repeats, and her voice does what her hand can’t.

“I’m not…strong enough,” Lexa mutters.

Clarke frowns. “What do you mean? Strong enough to protect me? I don’t know if you noticed this, Lexa, but I fell from space, escaped Mount Weather, and surviveda war. I think it’s pretty clear that I can take care of myself.”

It takes a long time for Lexa to respond, long enough that Clarke’s about to push her again when she mumbles, “I’m not strong enough to lose…not again. Not you.” She’s babbling, but Clarke understands.  

“You don’t have to do this alone. Remember what we said? We do this together.” She takes Lexa’s cheek in her hand and when she moves to draw her up, Lexa obeys like it’s a divine command. The hope and pain mingling in her gaze makes Clarke suck in a breath.

“You can’t promise that,” Lexa says, breathlessly like she’s just run a marathon, or maybe she’s still running. The ground is full of things that could part them, death or life or maybe they could even just fall apart, like a normal couple. Lexa looks away again, her expression bitter. “You can’t be sure.”

“No,” Clarke says, feeling exhausted and a bit desperate. “It’s a chance. But if we don’t take that chance, then life _is_ just about surviving. And I thought we said we deserved better. I meant that, Lexa, but maybe you didn’t.”

Now it's her turn to look away, and the exhaustion and despair that settles itself over her whole body is what makes Lexa break. She can’t stand to see Clarke looking this way, even if it means going against everything she’s been taught by life to keep herself from harm. She’d meant to pull away from _this_ with Clarke before she got in too deep, but she’s realizing now that she passed that point a long time ago.

So she puts her hand under Clarke’s chin and draws the Sky Girl close again, presses her lips very gently to hers, and after a moment she feels Clarke open her mouth, sighing into the kiss. When she pulls away she sees Clarke’s eyes are dull with resignation, but when they meet hers she sees a spark of hope ignite at what they find there. Lexa swallows hard.

“I am willing to try,” she says, “for you.”

The sun has nearly gone down at this point, but Clarke’s smile might as well be a second sunrise. Clarke launches herself forward, flinging her arms around Lexa and making her stagger back before she can catch them both. Clarke’s cheek is warm and wet against her shirt as Lexa tentatively brings her arms up to return the embrace. Clarke just clutches her tighter and makes noises that might be laughter or sobs. Lexa’s not sure and she’s about to ask, to try and fathom what Clarke’s feeling so she can formulate an appropriate response, but then Clarke lifts her head from Lexa’s shoulder and she’s smiling and laughing and crying all at once. And then Clarke’s kissing her like she’s the sky and Lexa’s the ground and where their lips meet is the horizon, like it was always meant to be this way, and Lexa forgets her fear and her reasons why not and instead gives herself to the sudden peace she feels and the conviction that this, with Clarke, is _right._

At some point one of them deepens the kiss and the other pushes her up against the wall. Clarke tries to mold her body to Lexa’s, to remove the last hints of distance between them, but there are pesky bits of fabric in the way. Her fingers have just started creeping up under Lexa’s shirt – only a little bit to see how the scar on her side is coming along – when shouts ring out from the outskirts of the village. They both whip around, faces flaming, to see the volunteers from the 47 and Camp Jaha making their laughing, singing, _noisy_ entry. It’s a bit like a circus coming into a holy place, and the look on Lexa’s face makes Clarke burst out laughing. “I knew I should have slaughtered every one of the Sky People when I had the chance,” Lexa mutters, crossing her arms over her chest, and Clarke leans up for one last kiss even though the moment is broken.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she says softly, and feels Lexa’s grin against her mouth.

"As am I."

They feel responsibility settling its weight on their shoulders again and they turn as one to greet the new guests, and yet they are both conscious of a burden shared. “Welcome to Tondc,” Lexa says formally, like she hasn’t just been caught with one hand on the _Amba kom Skaikru_ ’s ass. (Her hands seem to like being there quite a bit, Clarke thinks, and files that information away for later use.)

Jasper’s grin is blinding as he says, “Well, _hey_ , Clarke. And Commander”; Clarke tries to glare at him but her face is too red and she has to fight to curtail the impulse to hide it in Lexa’s shoulder. To her extreme gratitude, however, Lexa acknowledges Jasper with a nod and a look that drops the smirk off his face at light speed. He gulps, looking like he’s about to piss himself, and Clarke has to stifle a giggle.

“The feast has already begun but there should be plenty for all,” Lexa says, addressing the group at large. “When you have eaten, we will consult on your sleeping arrangements.” Clarke knows it’s not true, but at those last words she feels like every single one of the 47 is looking at her. To subdue the awkward silence that follows, Clarke steps forward and gives Jasper a hug.

“Hey Jas. Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Yeah, it was a last minute thing,” he says, returning it gratefully. “I didn’t want to leave Maya but I didn’t want to let Monty go by himself either. He’s still kind of…” He makes a wobbly gesture in the direction of his head, and Clarke nods. “So Harper promised to keep an eye on the Spared instead.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling again, but she doesn’t miss the anxious dart of his eyes towards Lexa. She’s reminded that while those who had been trapped in Mount Weather might be grateful for the Grounders’ part in their release, they don’t have the same experience of them that Clarke and those who had remained on the outside do. The last time Jasper, Monty, and the others had met with Grounders, it had been as enemies. And now they’re catching their leader red-handed pushing the Commander against a wall and –

 _Stop it_ , Clarke tells herself, feeling her face start to flame again. _You don’t have time for this_. “C’mon,” she says, raising her voice so it’s clear that she’s addressing the rest of them. “Let’s go get some food.”

There’s general cheering from the group and when she starts to head back down the path to the feasting ground, they follow her. After a moment, she realizes that Lexa’s fallen into step by her side. The Commander doesn’t look at her, just holds her chin high like she’s at the head of a procession of victorious warriors, not a gaggle of rowdy, raucous teenagers, but there’s a lightness in her face that Clarke can’t remember seeing before, and after a moment she feels Lexa’s fingers tangle with hers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigedasleng:
> 
> *means I've made stuff up
> 
> *kini squash: zucchini
> 
> *botnot: butternut squash
> 
> Seken: Second


	13. Lay me down (like the sun goes way low)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the rating goes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are a tiny child (or galpalkru) you should probably skip this part. Let me know how you think, but be gentle – it’s my first time ;) *

The dusk has lowered enough that by the time they return to the feast ground, villagers are circling the square with long torches, lighting the baskets of oiled wood that smell pleasant, if pungent, and smoke furiously. An evening breeze manages to carry most of it off the ground, but there’s just enough left to make things hazy and blissfully mosquito-free. Clarke sighs in relief, having slapped enough of the damn things off of her neck, she thinks, for a lifetime.

She and Lexa turn off for the high table as the Arkers swarm the banquet. True to Lexa’s word, it’s currently being refreshed with yet another roast boar carcass, to which the Sky People gratefully dig in. Clarke stares. “How many of those did you kill? Are there even any _left_ in the woods around?”

Lexa smirks. “Part of my job as Commander is to maintain stewardship of the woods, and make sure that the local wildlife populations don’t grow out of control.”

“You had a lot of frustration to work out, huh?”

To Clarke’s shock, Lexa throws back her head and _laughs_. It’s a very full laugh, one that sounds like burdens being lifted, or at least lightened, and it’s not a sound Clarke had imagined Lexa knew how to make – but it _is_ one that she’s determined to cause as much as possible. When she’s finished, she turns to Clarke and the look she gives her is full of so much _fondness_ that Clarke can’t help but smile in return.

“Something like that,” Lexa says.

They’re getting lost in one another’s eyes – it’s a cliché, Clarke knows, but don’t all clichés come from truth somewhere? – when a shout of triumph makes their heads whip towards the feasting ground. It turns out that yes indeed, Jasper and Monty have managed to reconfigure their still and smuggle it into Tondc. Several of the Camp Jaha guards who’d accompanied them look utterly unamused and are making their way over to stop them from dispensing the alcohol, but by the time they get through the press of Arkers – initially just members of the 100, but soon enough a few other volunteers from Camp Jaha – Jasper’s already downed his third finger of moonshine and, laughing, offers a cup to Captain Miller, who takes it hesitantly. After a moment of considering it he turns to Abby.

“Chancellor?”

“C’mon, Mom,” Clarke says, leaning over the back of her mother’s chair and grinning at her. “Live a little.”

Abby looks caught off guard, her mouth gaping open. She looks at Kane but he just shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. With a frustrated huff, she turns to Lexa. “Well, Commander, this _is_ your party.”

Clarke turns, her grin growing wider. “Yeah, Commander. Make it a party.”

Lexa speaks to Abby, but her smirk and darkened eyes are for Clarke alone. “Let us see if the Sky People can hold their liquor as well as the Tree Clan.”

Jasper lets out a whoop, echoed by the cheers of his compatriots, and begins pouring more alcohol. After a moment of watching them, Lexa turns to the villagers of Tondc, who are observing the antics of the Skaikru with mingled apprehension and curiosity. “ _Kru kom Tondc,”_ she announces in Trigedasleng, “ _the Sky People have brought an offering for our festivities. Let us join them in their celebration!”_ Her people answer her with cheers of their own, and a large number of the Trikru join the mass pressing around the still.

The liquor is flowing freely. It’s heady stuff, Lexa has to admit – Ryder brought her a cup, and she’s been sipping slowly from it, doing her best not to grimace at its sharp taste on her tongue. She needs to keep a level head, she knows, but it’s getting increasingly difficult to remember why as the villagers of Tondc bring out what musical instruments remain after the missile and strike up a fast dancing tune. With much cheering and spilling of liquor, her people begin to dance. Spurred perhaps by the drink, it doesn’t take long for the Sky People to join in, making up for their lack of knowledge of the steps with enthusiasm.

The banquet table is cleared away by those Trikru who remain the steadiest – Lexa’s warriors, most likely, as they know what hell awaits those who are hungover tomorrow – and a bonfire is built. The smoke grows thicker and thicker until Lexa feels like it’s swirling around in her head, a counterpoint to the liquor smoldering pleasantly in her chest. She turns to Clarke to deliver some sort of inarticulate attempt at expressing the sensation and finds the Sky Girl’s eyes fixed on her, and they _blaze._ Lexa swallows hard, abruptly feeling far more sober.

She’s proud that when she stands, she only wobbles a bit. “People of the Sky!” she shouts, her voice roughened by the smoke and the drink. “While one or two of you still retain the understanding of speech, let me be heard: you are welcome in Tondc tonight. Those of you who have brought tents may pitch them within the fire’s circle, to be safe from wild beasts; those who have not are offered quarter by the people of this village. And,” she says, glad for the smoke and the darkness so no one can see her face flushing, “any disputes may be brought to Indra, as she is this village’s general and I am taking the rest of the night off!”

Lexa’s not sure how much of the cheering that follows is due to her words and how much is due to the fact that someone is standing and shouting something and that’s what you do in this situation when you’re _tenkon_. She knows Indra’s probably going to kill her in the morning, but she doesn’t care. As she sits – well, flops if she’s being honest – back onto her throne, she only has eyes for Clarke. The Sky Girl’s gaze makes her skin itch under the weight of her clothes. She tugs at the collar of her coat before she remembers herself, and resigns herself to sweating under the heat of Clarke’s eyes. She reaches for her cup, which has not been fully empty of the Skaikru liquor all night, but at the last minute snatches up water and chugs so quickly she nearly chokes.

Clarke’s eyes are entranced with the movements of Lexa’s throat as she swallows, following the trail of an escaped water droplet as it winds down the column of her neck and under her collar. Her skin feels uncomfortably hot and tight, and there’s a part of her – manifesting itself in the death grip she maintains on the arms of her chair – that’s having trouble understanding why it would be a bad idea to climb onto Lexa’s lap in her throne and do what she’s been wanting to do for a miserably long time. But she can’t ignore the Chancellor sitting across from her. After a minute or two Abby clears her throat pointedly, and Clarke wrenches her gaze off of Lexa, grateful for the darkness to cloak her blush.

“I’m going to bed,” Abby says in a clipped tone, her eyes sharp on her daughter. “Are you coming, Clarke?”

“Yes, Clarke,” Lexa says before she can stop herself, “ _are_ you coming?”

Clarke turns redder than she thought was humanly possible and aims a swift kick at the Commander’s knee before saying weakly, “Um…well, I should probably keep an eye on them. Make sure they don’t start another war, right?”

Abby’s eyes narrow, flickering back and forth between her daughter and the Commander. “I’ll see you later, then,” she says, in a tone that suggests there will be dire consequences if she does not. Clarke nods hastily, unable to meet Lexa’s eyes, but she can feel their burning trails on her skin regardless. She keeps her gaze fixed firmly on her mother as she gets up – with a slight lurch – and makes her way towards where the Arkers have piled their gear.

Lexa knows she’s in trouble for that little comment, but she finds that she’s having difficulty bringing herself to care. Yet when she turns away from watching the firelight to face Clarke’s glare, she realizes that Clarke isn’t in her chair anymore. She has a brief moment to panic before there’s a whisper from behind her, hot in her ear: “And where am I sleeping tonight, Commander?”

The hairs rise on the back of Lexa’s neck and she has to close her eyes and swallow hard once, twice, before she can respond. “I believe the Chancellor expects you in her tent, Ambassador.” The hiss of a sigh on her skin makes her nearly unable to continue, but she does, dropping her voice an octave so it doesn’t break: “But you are welcome in mine as well.”

There’s silence from Clarke, long enough that Lexa begins to wonder whether she’s somehow entirely misinterpreted the Sky Girl’s cues, when Clarke rounds her throne and is suddenly filling her vision, eyes hot and dark and _pulling_ at Lexa with a force like gravity. Clarke takes her hand and her tug is gentle, but it yanks Lexa out of her seat like it has the strength of armies behind it. It takes every ounce of self-control she possesses to say hoarsely, “I must consult with Indra about making sure that your people are provided for and that they will be kept out of trouble, but I will meet you after.”

A pout twitches at Clarke’s lower lip, and Lexa has to fight hard against the impulse to lean forward and sink her teeth into it. “Fine,” she says. “Don't keep me waiting long.”

Lexa shakes her head so vigorously it’s left spinning as she watches Clarke’s back retreat up the path back to the village. It takes everything she has not to go sprinting after her.

With her head swimming with liquor and firelight and Clarke, it’s enormously difficult to find Indra, despite the fact that she’s merely standing a few paces away from the high table, darkly eyeing the commingled _mospet_ of Skaikru and Trikru as though waiting for a fight to break out. Not an unreasonable concern, Lexa knows, and yet the Skaikru liquor seems to be doing its work well – the only looks she sees on the faces of the celebrants are pleased, or…purposeful. The thought makes Lexa swallow hard as she turns to Indra…and realizes that she’s entirely forgotten what she came to speak to her general about. Indra takes one look at her and rolls her eyes. “ _Gon yu we, Heda_ ,” she says. “I will keep watch over the village tonight.”

Lexa nods gratefully and turns, doing her best not to trip over her own feet in her haste out of the feasting ground. She eyes her tent as she draws nearer like it’s a predator she’s stalking, like it could turn on her at any moment and savage her. _Not the worst way to go,_ she thinks, and then groans in exasperation at herself. _Sis yu teik op. You’re the Commander; act like it._ After taking a couple of breaths to calm herself, she throws back the tent flap and strides in.

The throne is still on the feasting ground, but Clarke is sitting in a chair by the war table, legs crossed, eyes on Lexa in a position that is as reminiscent of their first meeting as she can make it. “Lexa of the Tree Clan honors me with her presence,” she says sharply, and Lexa lets out a shaky laugh. Clarke feels the corners of her mouth twitch with an effort not to smile, but the tension isn’t broken. Slowly, she glides to her feet and makes her way to the Commander, who seems to be frozen in the center of the tent, eyeing Clarke like she’s a beast of prey.

_Good,_ Clarke thinks as she nears. She knows she’s not entirely sober but the alcohol has largely faded away; the headiness she feels is due to something else entirely. Her world seems to have focused to a few sharp points: the way she wants Lexa, and the way she can feel the Commander’s eyes on her, following her every move as she advances. It doesn’t take much to back her up against the war table like she’d done weeks before, but this time she keeps going until her body is flush against Lexa’s, close enough to see the way her throat bobs as she swallows hard and the heat and darkness in her eyes.

“What are you doing, Clarke,” Lexa says hoarsely, her words sounding more like a warning than a question. Clarke finds that she doesn’t have an answer, except to reach up and tangle her hands in the fine hairs at the back of Lexa’s neck, and draw her down into a kiss. She puts everything she’s been feeling into it, every lingering glance and sneaky touch and the _two weeks_ she’s spent trying not to think about this. She wants Lexa to feel it, every minute of it. When the Commander’s mouth opens under hers in a gasp and her hands rise almost involuntarily to grip at Clarke’s hips, she knows she’s succeeded.

When she pulls away, there are embers smoldering in Lexa’s eyes, and she feels an answering warmth coil in her belly. Clarke can feel Lexa trembling against her. “What do you want, Clarke?” she asks, her voice low in a way that makes heat spike between Clarke’s legs.

“You,” she says roughly, and watches delightedly as Lexa’s eyes slide shut and her head tips back just a bit, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. She knows Lexa’s losing control, and she doesn’t want to give her the opportunity to get it back.

“What do you want, Lexa?” Her tone is low and husky to match Lexa’s and she feels the other girl’s hands clench reflexively in the fabric of her shirt.

“You.” The word is harsh, and Clarke knows she’s got the Commander exactly where she wants her. She leans up, pressing her lips to Lexa’s ear, feeling her chest heave against her with the force of her breaths, to deliver the coup de grace:

“ _Then take me.”_

Lexa’s reaction is instantaneous, something like if Clarke had set off an avalanche or triggered a volcano. The Commander’s vice grip on her hips shifts to her upper arms and she’s whirled around, their positions reversed, Lexa’s body pressing her against the table and her mouth hard on Clarke’s, nipping and biting at her lower lip, tongue flicking against the roof of her mouth in a way that makes Clarke imagine what it could do elsewhere. The thought makes her twist her hands further into Lexa’s hair, pull her closer, rake her nails down the side of her neck in a way that drags a low groan out of Lexa.

The Commander presses hot kisses along Clarke’s jawline and down the column of her neck, and Clarke can hear her harsh pants in her ear, feel the heat of her breath searing her skin. This is good – this is _very_ good – but she wants more, and _now_. As though Lexa can hear her thoughts, she sinks her teeth into Clarke’s neck – a combination of sucking and biting and licking that, Clarke knows, will leave a truly stunning mark but that she really can’t bring herself to care about when Lexa’s doing _that_ with her tongue – and then she feels hands fist themselves in the hem of her shirt. Lexa pulls back and looks at her, a dark question in her eyes, and Clarke gives her a short, sharp nod, lifting her arms. Lexa hisses out a breath and draws Clarke’s shirt up with aching slowness, and Clarke fights against the urge to push her away and yank it over her own head.

When it’s gone, Clarke allows Lexa a moment to observe, enjoying the heat that flushes her face as her eyes trail burningly over Clarke’s skin, but she’s impatient too. Her hands fly to the buckles of Lexa’s coat and are stymied, making Lexa huff out a laugh and lean back to watch her struggle. Clarke’s reduced to yanking helplessly at them, but when she growls, low, Lexa’s grin drops and she brushes Clarke’s fingers away, undoing the fastenings herself at light speed. Clarke makes a satisfied noise in the back of her throat as she pushes the coat off Lexa’s shoulders, revealing the loose, low-cut shirt beneath. She wants more, but so does Lexa – warm hands wrap around her waist and pull her closer, drawing her into another searing kiss before they begin to roam.

It’s chaste at first, tracing up the muscles of her back and scraping short nails back down them, making Clarke shake; but soon they grow bolder, one reaching down to squeeze Clarke’s ass and startle a gasp out of her, while the other slides across her stomach and feels it tremble. She feels Lexa’s grin against her mouth and growls again, knowing what the noise does to the Commander, and then shoves her back a step so she can yank Lexa’s own shirt over her head.

Victorious, Clarke pulls back and takes a moment to observe Lexa’s toned form, eyes hot and bright, tongue between her teeth in a way that makes Lexa burn. She runs her hands across Lexa’s stomach, her arms and shoulders, and Lexa quivers; she kisses along every scar on her torso and traces her tattoos with her fingertips, and Lexa has to close her eyes and suck in a breath.

Lexa’s determined to let Clarke take the lead on this one, much as her entire body aches to pick her up and press her to the bed and make her scream. She has no idea how far Clarke wants to go tonight; this was not how she had imagined the evening progressing, not in the least, but she’s determined not to do anything that might frighten Clarke off. So she stands as still as she can and lets Clarke do what she wants.

This is apparently not enough for Clarke, though; she gets impatient with Lexa just standing there, fingertips ghosting occasionally along her arms and shoulders, and gives her another shove – back towards the bed. Lexa wants to ask her, again, what she’s doing – to ask her if she really wants to be doing this, with her, right now, so soon after _Not yet_ and _I can’t_ , but Clarke swallows her questions with a kiss, pressing herself against Lexa and grabbing at her hips in a way that makes her groan and tilt her head back. The Sky Girl seizes the opportunity and latches her lips onto Lexa’s neck, drawing the groan out into something truly obscene.

Then Lexa feels the backs of her knees hit the bed and she sits abruptly. Clarke follows, straddling her waist and bringing her breasts to eye level, which Lexa can’t ignore – she brings her hands up to brush their tops, and the noise Clarke makes, and the sight of her head thrown back momentarily, golden hair glinting in the firelight as it cascades down her shoulders, nearly undoes her. Her hands move faster over Clarke’s body, more confident, squeezing at her satisfyingly curved hips and perfect ass, running her fingers along the smooth plane of her stomach and letting the tips rest just under the cups of her bra.

It’s different than the binder she wears to keep her own breasts in check, but she understands its purpose – and she wants it gone. She reaches her hand around Clarke’s back and thumbs at the clasps, testing them, learning their mechanism and envisioning how to undo them. Clarke’s eyes flash at her and she’s drawn into a searing kiss, her hands tangling themselves once again into Lexa’s hair and scraping at the sensitive spot on the back of her neck that makes her huff and pant. She can feel heat and wetness pooling between her legs and Clarke is shifting above her, suggesting that the Sky Girl feels the same. She breaks the kiss, drawing back and feeling Clarke flushed and panting against her, wanting nothing more than to do as Clarke has asked but needing confirmation, once more, that she means what she’s said. She forces her own breathing to calm and, when Clarke tries to reach down for another kiss, puts her hand against the curve of her cheek and holds her away gently.

“I don't want to do anything you're not ready for, Clarke,” Lexa says slowly, like the words are heavy on her tongue. Her hands, which have been roaming restlessly all over Clarke’s body, have stilled in relatively chaste places: her hip, the curve of her neck. But Clarke can feel the heat of them igniting a flame in the pit of her stomach, and she leans down to kiss Lexa again, hard and deep.

“I'm ready,” she whispers.

The change is so sudden Clarke almost doesn't notice it happening: one moment she's on Lexa’s lap, and the next her bra has been unhooked (one-handed, but she has no time to be impressed) and flung into a dark corner of the tent. Then she's on her back and Lexa’s weight is settling over her, satisfyingly heavy and yet careful at the same time. Lexa’s hips are grinding down onto Clarke’s and her teeth are at her neck and her hands are on her breasts, palming them roughly and squeezing and pinching, until a full-throated moan rips itself unbidden from Clarke’s mouth. She can feel Lexa smirk against her skin, and she determines to give as good as she gets.

So as Lexa sucks and pinches and nips, her hands firm and confident like she's taking possession, Clarke sinks her teeth into the skin of Lexa’s shoulder, undoes the binding holding her breasts, and rakes her nails up and down Lexa’s “spine in a way that makes the Commander groan and pant. But Lexa doesn't allow herself to be undone for long: she's far too eager to take what she's spent months wanting and is now being granted.

So she pulls back and works at the fastening of Clarke’s jeans and urges her hips upward to slide them off. She nips once at the soft skin just above the band of Clarke’s underwear and grins when she hears her breath catch, then dispenses with the offending article of clothing the same way she did the bra, chuckling at the disgruntled noise Clarke makes.

And then she takes Clarke's chin in one hand, the other sliding up her thigh towards where it badly wants to be, but stops just shy. She's forcing Clarke to look at her, to make sure one final time that this is what she wants. She doesn't say anything, just looks at her with eyes darkened in lust, and waits, poised and trembling. Just before she loses all semblance of calm Clarke understands what she's asking and, eyes wide, nods once. Lexa lets out a harsh, relieved breath and leans down to kiss her bruisingly, at the same time that her hand dips into Clarke’s wet warmth.

They both moan at the same time, Clarke on account of how good it feels and Lexa on account of how wet Clarke is, how long she’s been waiting for this. She circles Clarke’s clit for a few minutes, letting her get accustomed to her touch, letting her tremors at the newness of it subside, and then she can’t wait any longer. She pushes a finger inside Clarke and starts thrusting slowly, groaning at how tight and hot and wet she is.

Clarke is seeing stars explode behind her eyes. Lexa’s doing something with her finger that feels unreal, curling it upwards and hitting a spot that makes heat flood her body with every stroke. She grabs and clutches at Lexa wherever she can, feeling like she needs to hold onto something or else she’ll fly off the earth. The ember that’s been glowing in her belly ever since they’d first kissed has turned into a bonfire, and with every thrust Lexa’s stoking it hotter.

Lexa barely gives Clarke time to adjust to the first finger before she adds another. She pulls at Clarke’s hips with her other hand, shifting them upward so she can drive in deeper. Without prompting Clarke’s legs wrap around her waist, pulling them closer together, matching her pace with her hips and goading her faster with challenge in her eyes. Lexa’s pants are harsh in Clarke’s ears as she increases the tempo at Clarke’s gasped demands, and she glories in the sounds she’s ripping from Clarke’s throat. She shifts so that her hips are behind her hand and uses them to add force to her thrusts, making Clarke’s voice climb to new heights.

Clarke feels like she’s on fire – like she _is_ the fire – and she can’t imagine how Lexa’s not burning up right now in her heat. Barely conscious of what she’s doing or saying she grips at Lexa’s shoulders, the back of her neck, digs her nails and teeth into skin, groans “More” and “Please” and “Oh God.” A third finger joins the other two, filling her in the most delicious way, and she feels like she’s about to lose her mind. And then Lexa’s thumb starts rubbing her clit and she does.

The first time she comes almost ridiculously fast and it makes Lexa almost want to apologize for not drawing it out longer, teasing and tormenting her until she screams. But the truth is she’s wanted this for so long, wanted to hear those moans and know that she elicited them, to feel Clarke clenching around her as she comes, that she knows she couldn’t have helped herself if she tried. So she lets Clarke ride out her orgasm around her fingers and waits until she comes down from it, shaking and clutching Lexa to her like she might fly away. Lexa kisses her like she’s the only thing tethering her to the world and it makes Clarke dizzy, but it’s over too soon. Lexa’s impatient – she wants to taste and touch and claim every part of Clarke, and she’s been waiting long enough. She begins kissing her way down Clarke’s body, pausing only to lavish attention on her breasts, before continuing downwards. Clarke’s entire body is trembling like a live wire; her eyes roll back in her head as Lexa’s mouth meets its mark.

Lexa allows herself to be lost in Clarke, the taste, the smell, the warmth of her, luxuriating in it before turning her attention to Clarke’s pleasure. She traces every inch of Clarke with her tongue and slides an arm around her hips when they buck, holding them firmly in place. She feels a hand tangle itself in her hair and that undoes her. She slides her fingers back into Clarke and feels thighs snap shut like a trap around her head, nearly blocking out the sound of her moans.

Time ceases to have any meaning for Clarke, while at the same time it’s racing for Lexa, driving her like a whip to bring Clarke to new heights. Life, for her, has always had death snapping at its heels; she’s never had the sense that they have all the time in the world, knowing their time together could end at any moment, with a bullet, a knife, an arrow, a spear. She barely gives Clarke a chance to recover before she’s trying something new, mapping her body with firm hands and burning eyes and a skillful tongue.

She continues until Clarke is exquisitely sensitive, so sensitive that she feels like a breath could make her come, or maybe explode. “Stop,” she gasps at last, pushing at Lexa’s shoulders, and feels her collapse on top of her, covering her body with her own warm weight. They’re both exhausted and trembling together with the headiness of everything, of what they’ve done and of what is still left to do. Lexa feels Clarke’s mind racing and she turns her head to press a kiss to her neck, over a mark she’s left. She hasn’t been gentle, but she hopes Clarke understands what it means, just how much Lexa has wanted her and how much pleasure she still has left to give her. “Quiet, Sky Girl,” she murmurs. “You think too loud. Go to sleep.”

Clarke chuckles exasperatedly and pushes at her weakly. “You’re squishing me. Move.” Grumbling, Lexa obliges, sitting up to pull a heavier fur over them both – she can feel the bite of the coming autumn on her bare skin. Then she collapses back on top of Clarke and nibbles at her ear in a way that makes her giggle and gasp, before moving to lie alongside her, resting her head on Clarke’s shoulder. She feels a kiss pressed to her hair, a hand gently tracing her shoulders, and sighs, wraps an arm around Clarke’s waist. The last thing she hears before she slides into sleep is Clarke’s drowsy voice: “Better rest up, Commander. Tomorrow it’s your turn.” Lexa falls asleep grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *writing smut. Chapter title from “Stay Low,” Ryn Weaver.
> 
> Trigedasleng:
> 
> *means I made stuff up
> 
> kru kom Tondc: people of Tondc
> 
> *tenkon: drunk. Tanked. Smashed off your ass. 
> 
> *mospet: gathering of dancers. Slurred from mosh pit. 
> 
> Gon yu we: go on/go away
> 
> *Sis yu teik op: get control of yourself.


	14. Are we in the clear yet (good)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because Clarke and Lexa finally did the do does not mean that Abby has disappeared into thin air. And neither have Octavia, Indra, and the rest of Tondc, who all appear to have something to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was pretty much just pure, unadulterated smut, and now the smut continues! Which means Lexa’s in for the ride of her life…
> 
> I dunno about you but I would very much appreciate a fight in the comments about everybody’s headcanons for their sexual/relationship dynamics. I’m super interested to see where everyone else comes down. Just sayin’. Hope you enjoy! Chapter title from “Out of the Woods,” Taylor Swift.
> 
> Oh and yeah, the name change? And the series change? Read the endnotes. All will be explained.

She’s having a very good dream, one of the best. It’s one she’s had before, but this time it’s different – more intense, somehow, more real, as though she’s not merely imagining the sensation of Clarke’s mouth between her legs, but truly feeling it. The Sky Girl’s eyes are locked with hers as she circles Lexa’s clit with her tongue and uses her fingers to push Lexa further open, exposing more of the hard nub to her mouth. Her gaze _burns_ into Lexa as she presses further into her and sucks all of her clit that she can reach into her mouth, surrounding Lexa with wet warmth that makes her groan, stars bursting behind her eyes.

Clarke sets up a steady rhythm of alternating licks and sucks, and it feels so good that Lexa knows it can’t be real – until the sudden press of a finger inside of her makes her hips buck, dislodging Clarke. Lexa’s eyes snap open into full wakefulness to take in a disgruntled-looking Clarke, who gives her a filthy look as if to say _How dare you_ and bends her head back down to her task. Lexa laughs shakily and flops back down onto the bed as the incredible sensations return, albeit with the addition of an arm slung firmly across her hips to keep her in place.

She nips and kisses and sucks at Lexa until she’s throbbing, her entire body pulsing in time with Clarke’s every movement and achingly sensitive, so much so that Clarke merely blowing gently on her makes her shudder. There’s sunlight filtering dimly through the top of the tent and she can hear the faint noises of the waking village, so she focuses on keeping her breathing steady and not letting the frantic noises she can feel building in her chest escape her throat. It won’t do for Tondc to hear their Heda being fucked until she screams by the _Amba kom Skaikru_ before breakfast.

That is, however, exactly what Clarke wants; she knows Lexa’s just about on the edge, can see it in the way she bites her lip and writhes, can feel it in the way she’s shaking every time Clarke drags her tongue from slit to clit, but her control is so tight that not even a whimper escapes. This won’t do, Clarke thinks, and she slows her movements even further, prompting a rumble from Lexa.

“ _Clarke.”_

Very slowly, Clarke picks her head up and replaces her mouth with her fingers, rubbing Lexa’s clit lazily. “Yes, Commander? What is it?” she says, as innocently as can be.

She doesn’t miss the way Lexa’s entire body flushes at the title, filing it away for later. But Lexa manages to retain enough of her composure to growl, “You _know_ what, Clarke. Don’t tease me.”

That is far too commanding a tone, Clarke thinks, from someone in Lexa’s position. She very gently slides her finger back inside Lexa and curls it upwards, making her arch off the bed with a groan. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Lexa says something in Trigedasleng that suggests a curse, and then says it again, louder, when a second finger joins Clarke’s first. She keeps up a torturous rhythm, drawing Lexa to the brink and then slowing down to nearly nothing, enjoying the sight of the Commander shaking and swearing and pressing at the stubborn head between her legs that just won’t give her what she wants. “ _Clarke,”_ she groans, drawing her name out like it’s a curse of its own or maybe a supplication, and finally Clarke caves, her need to see Lexa topple over the edge overpowering her desire to make her beg for it. It only takes a few minutes of steady pumping and pressure with her tongue before Lexa’s entire body goes rigid, the hand in Clarke’s hair clenching almost painfully tight as her walls clench around Clarke’s fingers.

She falls back against the bedding with a gasp, switching so suddenly from tension to utter bonelessness that Clarke wonders briefly if she might have passed out. She spots a glint in the Commander’s eye as she begins crawling up Lexa’s body to check and knows that she hasn’t gotten that far yet, but given the results she achieved with her first effort it doesn’t seem outside the realm of possibility.

Perhaps if she had been more familiar with Lexa in the bedroom than on the battlefield she might have known what that glint means, but she’s not: when Lexa grabs her firmly at the waist and shoulders and flips them, she yelps. Loudly. And then scowls, as the Commander is now sitting heavily atop her, looking altogether far too smug for someone who had been writhing and whining beneath her not two minutes ago. Clarke glares up at her. “I wasn’t done.”

“Neither was I.”

She attempts to reverse their positions but Lexa’s watching for it; before she can get a good hold, her wrists are pinned to the bed by strong hands and Lexa’s leaning in, a triumphant grin on her face. She reaches down to press her lips to Clarke’s, fingers sliding into her Sky Girl’s golden tangles, and that’s when Clarke strikes: her suddenly free hand reaches up to Lexa’s side and wiggles.

Lexa lets out a startled bark of laughter before she realizes what’s going on, but by the time she’s reeled back and trying to get away, it’s too late. Clarke’s got a good grip on her and is well on her way to tickling her into immobility, and all she can do is gasp out, “Clarke – no! Please! _Stop!”_

Clarke can’t help it – she’s laughing too, delighted to watch the serious, stoic Commander completely fall apart into a helplessly giggling mess. It’s easy enough to flip them again and she’s exploring a fantastically sensitive spot under Lexa’s left knee, and pondering what she can do to turn this encounter sexy again, when the tent flap snaps wide and Indra and Ryder burst in, weapons at the ready. Indra’s searching wildly for the threat, shouting,, “Heda, are you – oh.”

Clarke squeaks and dives for the furs on Lexa’s bed. Lexa sits up and crosses her arms over her chest, looking entirely unashamed of her nakedness but not pleased at all about the intrusion. “Good morning, General.”

“My apologies, Commander,” Indra says crisply, “we heard a shout and thought you might be in distress.” She looks generally exasperated at having been disturbed by something as stupid as this, and Clarke doesn’t blame her – or wouldn’t, if she weren’t the one having just been caught bare-assed on top of the Commander. Her entire body feels like it’s aflame with embarrassment.

Ryder has put his back to them with an unamused grunt, but Lexa and Indra appear to be having a glaring contest. After a tense minute, the general sighs deeply and rolls her eyes at Lexa, muttering, “ _Dumas_.” To Clarke’s shock, instead of puffing herself up and demanding the respect due her as Heda, Lexa simply sticks her tongue out at Indra like an actual five-year-old.

Clarke is enormously grateful when Ryder says to the roof of the tent, “If you are quite finished, Heda, breakfast is being prepared and the Chancellor of the Skaikru has expressed a desire to see the Ambassador before she leaves.” That breaks Lexa – she turns an even deeper shade of red than Clarke and reaches for her clothes.

“Thank you, Ryder. The Ambassador and I will come to breakfast shortly.”

Indra snorts, still eyeing the pair of them balefully, but Lexa can see a glint of humor in her glare. “Hopefully getting to breakfast won’t take you as long as getting to _this_.” Her sardonic gesture encompasses the entire tableau of naked Heda and hiding Sky Girl, making Lexa scowl, but she grins when she hears another squeak from behind her, turning to see Clarke burrowing further under her furs.

“ _Gon yo we,”_ she says laughingly, and they obey, though Indra doesn’t leave without another conspicuous eye roll. When Lexa’s sure the tent flap has swung shut, she turns to the lump under the bedclothes. “You can come out now, Clarke.”

There’s a groan. “Maybe in the next century.”

Lexa grins wider and tugs her shirt on. “I’d advise against it. Stay in here long enough and your mothermight think I'm holding you hostage.”

That’s enough to startle Clarke out of the bedclothes, that and the smell of sizzling bacon carrying clear across the camp. They don’t look too miserable, she thinks, for having spent half the night doing things she never, _ever_ wants her mother to know about – until, of course, she catches sight of herself in the large shard of mirrored glass that hangs from one of the posts of Lexa’s tent. “Lexa, what the hell!”

Lexa raises an eyebrow at her as she shrugs into her coat, and Clarke points viciously at the truly impressive sunset-colored mark spreading across her throat. “What are you, a vampire? I can’t go out there like this!”

The Commander raises the other eyebrow and tugs the collar of her overcoat aside to reveal a similar one, making the Sky Girl blush. Lexa enjoys it for a minute or two before relenting, and pulls a short jacket with a high furry collar out of a trunk at the foot of her bed. Clarke glares at it for a minute like it’s offended her, but then reaches out to snatch it out of Lexa’s hand, making the Commander snort. Clearly the desire to avoid ridicule has won out over the Sky Girl’s peevishness.

She’s going to have a hard time of that, Lexa knows. There are very few secrets in a village as small as Tondc, and even fewer in the tent city that it’s become. She remembers the ribbing she got from the other Seconds the first time she and Costia had spent the night together in Polis – and Anya had been the worst. After mocking Lexa for a solid ten minutes about just how exhausted she looked and how well Costia must have worn her out, she sent the lot of them on a ten-mile hike through a bog. That had inspired Lexa to become truly excellent at stealth, learning how to move silently and find hiding spots where she couldn’t be tracked. Though Anya had, of course, always been able to find her.

Lexa’s fondly considering ways to spirit both herself and Clarke away to one of her favorite places – a cave just under a waterfall, not two miles from here, where they can get some privacy and maybe even some _sleep_ – when a clangor that sounds a lot like someone beating a sword against an empty metal pot rises from just outside the tent, making them both jump. It soon becomes apparent that that is exactly what the noise is: Octavia has been sent to make sure they come to breakfast, grown tired of waiting for them to emerge, and taken it upon herself to drive them out.

Every clang feels like a knife being driven into Clarke’s left temple, forcibly reminding her of just how much alcohol she consumed last night. Growling under her breath, she fastens Lexa’s jacket up to her chin and storms out of the tent, grabbing Lexa’s hand at the very last second and towing her along when it becomes clear that she’s not going to move without encouragement. “ _What – the – fuck,”_ she snarls, slapping the pot out of Octavia’s hand and into the dirt.

Octavia just rolls her eyes at Clarke and sheathes her sword. “Indra sent me to come and get you. Apparently there was something about _making sure Heda and Amba leave bed at some point today. Gross_ , by the way.”

“Oh please,” Clarke sneers, but Octavia shakes her head.

“Nope, nope, don’t even go there, Griffin. You _never_ get to tease me about being loud again – not after last night, anyway.”

Octavia’s much better at the no-shame game, Clarke’s forced to concede, blushing crimson and attempting to hide her face in the jacket’s collar. Unfortunately, this exposes the side of her neck to a delighted Octavia, who reaches out to yank the fabric further away and get a better look at the hickey. But Lexa slaps her hand away before she can get a good glimpse.

“ _Gon yu we, Seken,”_ she growls, looking as thunderous as Clarke’s ever seen her (which does not turn her on one bit, definitely not), but Octavia just smirks.

“Down, girl.”

The Commander is completely taken aback by her flippant tone, and Octavia takes advantage of that fact to saunter away, tossing back over her shoulder, “You should probably do something about that before your mom sees you at breakfast, Clarke.” By the time Lexa’s recovered from her shock and is ready to rain down blood and thunder, she’s escaped down the path to the feasting ground, looking like a cat that ate a canary.

“ _Dumas,”_ Lexa growls under her breath as she watches Octavia go, and while Clarke doesn’t know the word she can definitely understand and empathize with the statement.

“Make her muck out the stable or something,” she suggests, but Lexa shakes her head.

“Can’t, I’m afraid. She’s not an initiated warrior yet, so any commands I give her must go through her _Fos._ And Indra probably put her up to this. As soon as she’s been through initiation, though, _em donk ste ain.”_

They both consider the path to the feasting ground darkly. “She’s just the beginning, isn’t she?”

Lexa nods grimly. “I’m afraid so. Once more into battle, Clarke.”

They meet several of Lexa’s warriors on their way to the breakfast table, and while Clarke doesn’t understand what they say to Lexa it’s clear from their grins and the way the Commander snaps back at them that they’re making fun of her too. She finds that Lexa’s walking closer and closer, hovering over Clarke in a way that she might find endearing if it didn’t make the warriors hoot louder. Eventually she shoves Lexa away a pace just to give herself some breathing room, but the Commander doesn’t seem particularly bothered – not about that, at least. “ _Wamplei kom thauz kodon,”_ she mutters.

“I think that might be less painful,” Clarke grumbles back, startling a laugh out of Lexa, and Clarke can’t help but smile. When she’d first met the grim young Commander of the Grounders, it wasn’t a sound she could ever imagine hearing – but now she finds it’s one she wants to hear far more often. Usually so self-contained, Lexa laughs with her entire body – head thrown back, limbs loosened, face alight with a giant grin. For just a moment, it seems like the weight of her collected lifetimes – of _Heda_ – has fallen from her, and she could just be any other nineteen-year-old in love.

Clarke blinks at the word her mind has supplied, hardly noticing as Lexa’s arm sneaks around her waist and draws her closer. Neither she nor Lexa had said anything about love, and she doubts she’ll hear it from the Commander any time soon – _love is weakness_ still echoes in the caution of her gestures, the worry that shows in her eyes just before the affection as she pauses in volleying back at one of her guards to offer Clarke a cheeky smile. And if Clarke’s being honest with herself, she’s not ready to hear or say it either. She’s lost too much in too short a span of time to be truly comfortable with the weight of another person’s heart beating next to her own.

But that’s not to say, she thinks as they round the bend in the path to the feasting ground, that it will never happen. She can’t deny the way her stomach flips when Lexa grins at her, or the slow, warm settling feeling she gets when Lexa gives her one of her small, shy smiles that feel like she’s telling Clarke a secret. So no, she may not love the Commander, but the possibility is there, the seed has been planted. It just needs time and rain and care and space, and it can grow.

Much as she doesn’t want to, Lexa withdraws her arm from around Clarke’s waist as they come within view of the banquet table. Breakfast is a more relaxed affair; everyone helps themselves, and comes and goes as they please. She can already feel the stab of Abby Griffin’s gaze as she looks up from her seat next to Lexa’s throne. With a short sigh, Lexa lets her steps take her a pace or two away from Clarke, shooting her an apologetic look and hoping that the Sky Girl understands. Her slight nod and grimace tell Lexa that she does.

Though she knows she’s being weak, Lexa buys herself more time by making her way to the banquet table and busies herself with acquiring food she knows she probably won’t eat. _This is ridiculous_ , she tells her churning stomach – she’s the Commander, she’s won a war and freed her people from a fifty-year cycle of kidnapping and exsanguination, and ended a civil war that’s gone on much longer than that. There is absolutely no reason that she should be _nervous_ to face the Chancellor of an insignificant people who are only alive due to her good graces, just because she’s the mother of the girl that Lexa –

_No._

It’s not time for that yet, if ever. Lexa had meant what she said to Clarke the evening before – it’s hard for her, but she’s willing to try – but she cannot stomach the prospect of _love_ , not now, not yet. She remembers all too well what happens to those who love her, and if she ever somehow forgets her nightmares remind her every night. _Maybe_ and _someday_ and _I will try_ are all she can promise herself and Clarke. There are still many battles to be won before she can even consider the prospect that her fight might be over. There is a poem she’d read once, maybe three years before, and as she makes her way to the high table, shreds of it float through her mind:

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

There will not be any rest for her soon, Lexa knows, seating herself on her throne as confidently as she can and starting to pick apart a piece of bread. And yet, feeling the slight brush of Clarke’s hand against hers as she sits as well, she finds herself suddenly willing to entertain the thought that it might not be as long as she’d once believed.

Abby starts in on Clarke just as soon as she sits down, hissing, “Where the hell were you last night? You never came to the tent, and I was worried sick. You know it’s not safe to be wandering around –”

Just as Lexa’s wondering how Clarke’s going to extricate herself from this one, the Ambassador levels a flat stare at her mother and says in a matching tone, “You didn’t need to worry, Mom. I was safe. I was with Lexa.”

Lexa chokes on the sip of water she’s just taken as Abby’s mouth opens and closes furiously. Clarke surveys the two of them with as much amusement as she can muster, given that it’s still _way_ too early in her estimation and she’s feeling the beginnings of a truly monster headache. Eventually Abby snaps her mouth shut, and when Lexa continues coughing rather longer than is strictly necessary, Clarke thumps her on the back a few times, _hard_ , ignoring the glare she earns.

Abby’s narrowed eyes dart to Lexa, who’s steadily chugging water now and resolutely avoiding them. She opens her mouth, possibly to deliver some sermon about responsibility or safety or just not liking Lexa as a human being with interest in her daughter, but Clarke’s not having any of it. She leans across the Commander to fix her mother with a level stare. “I’m an adult, Mom, Lexa and I are both adults and as long as nobody’s in danger and everyone’s doing their jobs, our sleeping arrangements are our business.” She sees Lexa looking at her out of the corner of her eye what she guesses is a mixture of shock and arousal, but she ignores it, keeping her gaze fixed on her mother. “Besides, her bed is _way_ more comfortable than a smelly old sleeping bag on the ground.”

“Oh my God, Clarke,” Abby huffs, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. Clarke allows herself a little smirk, both at her mother’s reaction and at the blush that has risen instantly to Lexa’s cheeks. The Commander, for her part, finds herself wishing fervently that she had put on warpaint this morning, but it appears that Clarke is more than capable of fighting this battle herself.

“I’m going to be fine, Mom, and I’m going to be safe. Octavia and Bellamy and Lincoln and all the rest will be here to look after me, and we’re going to hash out the details of the alliance, and then in two weeks I’ll be back at Camp Jaha with you.”

“Just you,” Abby says fiercely.

Lexa attempts to glare and opens her mouth to protest but Clarke nods shortly. “Just me.”

Abby sighs and looks at the table, picking at a splinter; when she looks back up at Clarke, her expression has softened. “You know I love you, right?”

This pierces Clarke to the core, and she feels her face grow hot with pressure behind her temples. All of the shit they’ve been through, falling from the Ark and thinking they’ll never see each other again and then the Ark falling itself, and then the Grounders and Mount Weather and the missile and _Lexa –_ they’d come so close to losing each other for good so many times that it’s hard to know when to stop fighting. She reaches out to take her mother’s hand. “Yeah, Mom. I love you too,” she says, attempting to put as much sincerity into her tone as possible. “It’s just two weeks.”

Abby’s smile is watery as she nods. “Just two weeks.” She turns her eyes on Lexa and they’ve grown hard again, but not, perhaps, as hard as they could be. “Anything happens to her and I don’t care how big your army is, I’ll be coming for her. Do you hear?”

“I hear, Abby Griffin,” Lexa says softly. “You have my word that no harm will come to Clarke when she is with me.” The inflection suggests that she doesn’t just mean the two weeks that she’s physically present in Tondc.

Abby sighs, stands, stretches. “Well, we should probably get going. It’s not a short walk.”

Clarke nods and stands as well, and then steps around the throne to pull her mother into a hug. Abby’s rigid in her embrace for a moment, as if taken aback by it, but when she’s recovered from her shock she’s quick to wrap her arms around her daughter and return it gladly. “Come back to me,” she whispers into Clarke’s hair, and Clarke nods, swallowing hard.

“I promise.”

Abby offers her one final watery smile before the mask of the Chancellor falls into place and she steps away, calling for Captain Miller to get the Arkers ready to leave. _We’re not so different,_ Clarke thinks, noting the abrupt change in her mother’s demeanor and thinking of the Commander. Lexa steps up quietly behind Clarke and places a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“We should get ready as well, to send them off.”

Clarke nods, not knowing exactly what that means but not in the mood to ask. When Lexa makes her way back up the path to the village, Clarke follows.

The send-off is quick and simple, a pale echo of their welcome; most of the villagers have already resumed their work rebuilding Tondc and have little time to watch the leaders stand on ceremony. Lexa offers a few pleasantries and wishes for their safe return, then reaches out her hand for the Chancellor to shake. To her surprise, Abby Griffin clasps her forearm and draws Lexa close in the Trigedakru fashion – a bit stiffly, but Lexa supposes she should be grateful that she doesn’t take the opportunity to lodge a knife in her gut. The Chancellor’s grip on her arm is overly firm, as is the look in her eyes as she pulls away, but when Lexa nods at her, attempting to make a promise with her gaze,Abby nods back.

Then it’s Clarke’s turn, and she reaches out for another hug. This one doesn’t last as long – they’re both conscious of the eyes on them – but when she hears Abby whisper, “I miss you already,” she has to blink very rapidly and swallow hard.

“Me too, Mom,” she says hoarsely. “See you in two weeks, all right?” She does her best to keep her tone light, like she’s just going on a vacation, maybe a camping trip in the woods with some friends. The thought makes her laugh shakily as her mother pulls away.

“May we meet again,” Abby says.

“May we meet again,” Clarke repeats, smiling as bravely as she can until her mother turns away.

“Let’s go home,” Abby says to the delegation from Camp Jaha. Clarke and Lexa watch them until they’ve turned a bend in the path and have disappeared into the trees.

Clarke keeps her eyes on the place where they’ve vanished for far longer than is necessary, thinking what it would be like to hear that her mother has been lost in the woods or killed by a _pauna_ or captured by Ice Nation raiders, and that she’ll never see her again. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s heard that, but she doesn’t know how many times she can be expected to keep hearing it. As if sensing the dark turn that her thoughts have taken, Lexa’s warm hand clasps her shoulder. Her gaze is surprisingly open, one of her small, secret smiles that feel like they’re just for Clarke on her face. Despite her anxiety, Clarke can’t help but return it.

"I have patrols out on the road between here and Camp Jaha every couple of days or so,” the Commander says quietly. “I’ll send one out this evening to make sure that they’re safe.”

“Thank you,” Clarke says, and after a moment slides her hand into Lexa’s, grateful for its warm, rough comfort as it encloses hers.

They turn to regard the edge of the crater at which they stand, which they have the task of turning back into a village once more, where people can live and work and love. It seems like a yawning chasm to Clarke, a void that’s nearly impossible to fill, and yet they’re both leaders and it’s their responsibility to try. She sucks in a breath at the enormity of it, and after a moment hears Lexa huff out a sigh.

“So…what now?” Clarke says after a moment of silently watching. It seems to her that the whole world is waiting on the answer, and her insides are trembling with exhaustion and purpose.

Lexa takes a deep breath, holds it in, lets it out. “We begin again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let me back up and explain a bit. I just have so much more story to tell that I figured it would be best to break it up to keep it from turning into a monster. So here’s how it’ll work: as you may have noticed, the title of this story and its series have changed. The series is now called Heavy Lies the Crown, and this is the first part, called Rebirthed Kings and Queens. It’ll continue relatively soon with Part Two, which is called Interregnum and will be a good bit shorter, largely dealing with the events between now and when Lexa and Clarke are called to Polis in the spring to discuss the future of the alliance and of the Sky People. That will take place in the third part, called Empire of Our Own (I know, I know, but that damn song has been stuck in my head ever since 2x11 and god damn was that bit at the end (“You may be the Chancellor, but I’m in charge”) fucking breathtaking). 
> 
> I promise that the assassination attempts and the shotgun wedding and even more heavy drinking are forthcoming, and you should see the first chapter of Interregnum before long – I just want to take care of some prompts and some one-shots I’ve had floating around in my head, and go do things like get some sleep and see galpalkru graduate from college. As always, I would love to hear what you think, and I hope you enjoyed the ride that was Rebirthed Kings and Queens. I know I did. Thanks for reading and commenting, and I hope you enjoy the next parts!
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr (hedakomtrashkru.tumblr.com) with questions, comments, concerns, boozy half-considered arguments, thinly veiled insults, love notes, whatever. 
> 
> Potato out. 
> 
> Trigedasleng:
> 
> *means I’ve made stuff up
> 
> *dumas: idiot. Slurred from dumbass. 
> 
> Gon yo we: go on, go away (in the second-person plural, as in y’all. So this is kind of like “y’all go on.”). 
> 
> Seken: Second.
> 
> Fos: first. In this instance I’m using it to mean First, as in a warrior who is training a Second.
> 
> Em *donk ste ain: Her ass is mine. Yes, donk means ass. Theoretically it could be slurred from donkey, which is another word for ass. Fight me. 
> 
> Wamplei kom thauz kodon: death of a thousand cuts. What you get when you seriously piss off a group of Grounders (or figuratively, when you have really loud sex and keep everybody up at night). 
> 
> Pauna: giant murderous mutant gorilla.

**Author's Note:**

> Credits to my sister for the beta - she's anyasmud on tumblr by the way, and galpalkru here. 
> 
> I'm at obeyheda.tumblr.com - come say hi.


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